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watchmegetobsessed · 24 days

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OLD GRUDGES (part 2)

A/N: hello hello! it is quite the miracle, but im here with the second part already!! hopefully i can get the creative juices going and finish this story hehe

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

SUMMARY: Harry and Y/N go way back. Working together was like a dream when 1D was still going strong. Now, years later, when they end up working together again, things are very different. Mostly because Y/N seems to be hating Harry passionately. But he has not idea why.

MASTERLIST | PART 1

Solo studio sessions weren’t happening a lot for Harry. It was always him and at least one of the boys there, since the final product always needed them all. So when Y/N texted him if he could drop by the studio for some rerecording, he jumped at the opportunity.

Maybe it wasn’t just the desire to record on his own, maybe… it had something to do with wanting to be with Y/N.

“So what are you thinking?” Y/N’s question snaps Harry out of his thoughts, he was a tiny bit too focused on the way she was leaning onto the mixing desk.

“Huh?”

Y/N turns to him as she leans back in her seat. The look on her face tells Harry that she knows why he wasn’t listening to what she was saying, but it doesn’t seem like it bothers her.

“The note change. What do you think if you go higher up at the end?”

“Great idea,” he chuckles and he thinks he might even be blushing a bit.

“Okay, then let’s try that,” she nods towards the booth, getting ready to start the recording again.

Time flies by as they work on the song, recording several versions they can later choose from. Slowly, the session turns into something else, something friendlier and freer as they start sharing creative ideas.

“How do you always know what would work the best?” Harry asks with a laugh, spinning around in his chair.

“I do not,” she shakes her head, taking a sip from the remainder of her drink. They ordered food a while ago, the empty wrapping papers are now sitting in the trash.

“Oh, you definitely do. What goes down in your mind?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs shyly. “I just… hear it, I guess.”

Harry can’t help but look at her in awe. She is so young and talented, he aspires to be like her someday and even hopes she’ll be the one to teach him.

“I want to show you something,” she speaks up, rolling closer to the desk. She searches on the computer for a bit and then opens a file before music starts spilling out of the speakers.

A soft melody starts playing, only a few notes are hit before the guitar joins in and then soon the rest, but it’s still kept very simple. It quickly buries itself into Harry’s ears and he listens to it feeling like he is lying on a cloud somewhere up above.

“What do you think?” Y/N asks when the recording ends, seemingly nervous to hear Harry’s thoughts.

“It’s amazing, Y/N.” He is still in awe, the goosebumps on his skin are still there even though the song is not playing anymore.

“I made this for you guys especially, I can already hear your voice in it.”

“Do you have any lyrics?”

“Just a couple of lines,” she nods and grabs her notebook, flips over the pages and then hands it over to Harry. He scans over her neat handwriting and reads the lines.

We’re only gettin’ older, baby

And I’ve been thinking about it lately

Does it ever drive you crazy

Just how fast the night changes?

Even though he doesn’t know how the lyrics would go with the melody he heard, he just knows it matches perfectly.

“I love it,” he smiles, handing her back the notebook.

“It’s not done yet.”

“It’s already perfect.”

She chuckles, seemingly overwhelmed by his positive reaction. They’ve only known each other for a short time, the connection between them is strong and it’s not only Harry who has so much respect and adoration for Y/N. She craves his validation just as much.

“Maybe you’ll be recording it one day,” she smiles at him sheepishly.

“I really hope so.”

Harry wishes he had a hangover to battle with this morning. He would much rather be chugging all kinds of green smoothies that promise to ease the aftermath of an alcohol-filled night, but this is not his case.

His phone is sitting on the kitchen counter with a black screen, almost mocking him in a way.

No calls, no messages, she doesn’t want to talk to you. You fucked it up.

He doesn’t want to check how many times he’s tried to call her since last night, even though after his first try her attempts went straight to her voicemail. He left a couple of messages and they got progressively more and more desperate.

“Hey, it’s Harry. Please call me back, let’s talk about it okay?”

“Y/N, pick up the phone, please don’t run away. Let’s talk, we need to face each other sooner or later.”

“I’m begging you, Y/N. I’m so–Fuck! Why did you run away like that?! Please call me back, I’m losing my mind.”

Not his proudest moments for sure, but the radio silence has been killing him.

As he’s staring at the device, his thoughts racing, he is trying to come up with a plan on how to deal with the situation. He goes over the facts again.

Y/N has been obviously hating him since they’ve been working together for the second time. He has no idea what he did to turn her against him and she refused to tell him either. Despite the tension that’s been lingering around them, there’s been a strong physical attraction, at least on Harry’s side, but last night proved that it’s been mutual.

Last night. When he attempted to get answers, they got into an argument which somehow turned into a hot and rather quick fuck in the restroom, after which she ran away like the building was on fire and he hasn’t been able to contact her since then.

Fuck, this is still such a mess.

He grabs the phone from the counter, ready to call her again, but then the screen lights up and for a moment Harry’s heart jumps right out of his chest, but then it sinks into his stomach.

It’s Mitch.

“Hey man. What’s up?” he answers the call.

“Hey, just checking in, you left in a quite… weird state last night.” In the background Harry hears Scout chanting, followed by Sarah’s voice and then silence.

“Uh, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He rubs his face with his free hand, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah, sure. So what happened?”

“Nothing, really. Everything is fine.”

Mitch goes silent on the other end of the line and Harry prays he just lets it go, but deep down he knows it’s not going to happen. Especially because Mitch knows him like the back of his hand and there’s no way he can fool him. With his lips pressed together he stares ahead of him and then Mitch speaks up.

“You fucked Y/N?”

“What?” Harry chokes, shocked that he got to this conclusion with so little information.

“Holy shit, you fucked her!” Sarah’s voice comes from somewhere in the back. “Sorry babe!” Then Harry hears him shuffle around and he continues. “You totally fucked her, right?”

He doesn’t answer, but it does answer Mitch’s question.

“What the fuck, I thought you two hated each other.”

“Well, she hates me and I’m just… returning her hostile behavior.”

“Okay, but how did you end up fucking?”

“I genuinely have no idea. I just wanted to talk to her, try to get her to tell me what I did but then it turned into a small fight and the next thing I knew we were making out like horny teenagers.”

“Where the hell did you even do it?”

“Staff’s restroom. It was unlocked.”

“Wow man, this is wild,” Mitch laughs in disbelief.

“Yeah, it was pretty wild, but then she just ran away.”

“Sarah said she saw her leaving, she looked… off.”

“Off? What does that mean?”

“That she just grabbed her bag, mumbled something about needing to leave and then basically sprinted out of the bar.”

“How did she leave that fast?” Harry growls, still in disbelief she could flee that quickly. “Have you guys talked to her since last night?”

“Nope.”

“Great. She is not answering my calls and messages and I’m literally losing my mind over here.”

“I wish I could give you any advice, but… I have no idea what you should do. Maybe give her some time. You’ll have to face each other eventually, you work together.”

“I know, but… It would have been nice if that wasn’t the first time we met again.”

“Well good luck with this mess, man.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your support,” Harry mumbles as they end the call.

He recalls the last time he felt this nervous was probably before he played Wembley as a solo artist. But today he is just going into the studio.

It’s been two days since Mitch’s show and he hasn’t heard a single thing from Y/N. It took him some time to go from trainwreck to somewhat okay, but then today he woke up with a raging anxiety about the fact that he’ll be facing her finally. He tried to come up with a plan and figure out what he’ll tell her, but he knows he wouldn’t remember any of those standing in front of her.

So he is going into this fully blindly.

“Hey man, how’s it going?” Jack greets him when he steps out of the elevator and the two of them head to the studio together.

“All good,” he smiles, or at least tries.

“Listen, today I thought that we could…”

Harry kind of tunes out, his thoughts only circling around seeing Y/N in just a matter of seconds. How will sh act? Will she be mad? Embarrassed? Exactly how she’s been? Total mystery.

“Ah, I’m gonna get coffee quickly, be back in five.” Jack pats his shoulder before running off right in front of the door to the studio where Y/N probably is currently.

He stops there, takes a deep breath to get himself ready and then before he could chicken out of it, he opens the door.

And there she is, sitting in her usual seat, already working on something. Today she is wearing light washed jeans with a black t-shirt, a pair of bright pink earrings dangling from her ears, bringing some color into the set.

She looks amazing, as always.

At the opening of the door she turns in his direction and time seems to stop for a bit as their gazes meet.

“Hey,” Harry breaks the silence as he steps inside.

“Hi,” she replies and turns back to the screen.

Ice cold. She is pretending like nothing happened and it’s hitting Harry across the face like a slap.

He inches into the room and drops his bag to the tiny loveseat by the wall, all while staring at Y/N, waiting for her to… well, react differently.

“Um, how are you?”

“Fine,” she answers in a dull tone, eyes glued to the screen.

“Where… Where did you go the… other night?”

“Home.”

Okay, he is about to lose his shit, her one word replies might be even worse than no reply.

“Y/N, can we talk about that night? Because–”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she cuts in and finally looks at him with such a murderous expression, it almost startles Harry.

“Oh, but I think there’s a lot to talk about.”

“No. Nothing happened.” She speaks slowly and her voice carries an awfully threatening tone in it. “And if you ever bring it up again, I swear I will do everything in my power to ruin you.”

“What is this, kindergarten?” Harry huffs in disbelief. “Why can’t we talk like adults just once?”

“Because we have nothing to talk about!”

“We had sex in a bar’s bathroom, Y/N! That is pretty much something!”

“It was a mistake,” she hisses back. “I had too much to drink and I have—had a lot of shit going on, okay? I would have done it to probably a stranger who I came across so now get the fuck off my back and shut your mouth about it! It will not happen again.”

Harry can’t decide just yet how he feels. Confused, hurt, angry… disappointed. There are a thousand things he wants to say, but none at the same time. So when he hears Jack’s footsteps outside he just swallows it all down.

“Okay. Let’s forget about it.”

“Hey guys, got coffee for everyone, can we start?” Jack walks in and life moves on.

Harry takes his usual seat and braces himself for probably the longest session ever.

Harry is said to be great at networking, although he kind of hates it. He needs to be in a specific mood to charm unknown people who would later have a decision over his career.

Columbia Records have these events from time to time where artists and investors meet, bringing the creativity and money together to find some common ground. Which not always happens, but they just keep trying.

Tonight it’s a dinner party, there are a few artists, producers and people with the big money. Jeff talked Harry into coming, but he is not planning to stick around for dessert, he’s just not in the mood. To be honest, he hasn’t been in the mood for anything for a week and that week coincidentally lines up with how long it’s been since he had that talk in the studio with Y/N.

Okay, it might not have been what would be considered as a talk, Y/N very specifically told Harry not to ever bring up what happened and then he just agreed to it out of… fear? Embarrassment? Confusion?

Probably all of those and even more.

Sipping on some champagne Harry is eagerly waiting for the eating to start so he can leave as soon as possible. He’s been schmoozing around for the past about forty minutes, but he can feel his batteries draining.

Then another guest arrives and Harry’s stomach drops.

Y/N walks in wearing a burgundy pant suit, looking chic as always.

A waiter walks past Harry with a tray of shots and he is quick to grab one and chug it down.

“Well, this is going to be interesting,” he mumbles to himself.

For the next twenty minutes it’s like a weird dance between the two of them, trying to avoid each other, which seems to be successful, right until the dinner actually starts and Harry realizes he is sat next to Y/N.

“Amazing,” he hears and looking up he sees her behind her seat, looking anything but thrilled.

“I didn’t make the seating,” Harry defends himself as they sit.

“Let’s just get over with it as fast and painlessly as possible,” she grumbles under her nose.

“Agreed.”

Across from them two men sit, investors Harry assumes from what he has heard from their conversation so far. For a bit he prays they don’t try to talk to him, but soon enough they pull him into their chit-chat, along with Y/N as well.

“How long does it take for an album to be recorded?” one of the men, Callum asks them.

“Um, it varies, I’ve done it in just a month before. My current one has been in the work for a little over five weeks and we still have a lot to do,” Harry smiles politely over the appetizers.

“And how many songs do you make until you choose that dozen that actually gets to be on the album?” the other one, Damian asks.

“I don’t know, I usually record around twenty every time, but I assume it depends on the artist.”

“The average is usually between eighteen and twenty-five,” Y/N chimes in.

“What happens to the rest that don’t make it? Or don’t get finished on time?”

Harry can sense Y/N freezing at the question, her hand actually stops mid movement.

“Well, we save them for later, maybe use them on another album. Or just… simply never use them,” Harry explains while Y/N snaps out of… whatever happened to her, returning to the conversation.

They can’t leave early, the two men keep them busy all along, asking them about anything and everything about their job basically.

After dinner drinks are served and it’s turning into a smaller party. Harry has lost Y/N when he stood from the table and for a while he thinks she could escape somehow. But then, just when he is in the middle of ordering a car for himself, he spots her talking to Damian, the guy from across the table.

The expression on her face is definitely not pleasant and not just in her usual way. Harry knows her enough to figure out she doesn’t like what Damian is telling her, not even one bit. Anger and disgust are very much apparent on her face and as Harry walks closer to investigate and potentially save her from the unpleasant conversation, he catches part of it.

“I mean, I would trust a guy over a woman, but that’s not bad, right?” Damian snorts out a laugh, but Y/N is not sharing his humor. In fact, she looks like she is about to blow up like an atom bomb and even though Harry knows she would have all the rights to do so, it might not be too wise in front of investors. Even if they deserve to be murdered by hurricane Y/N.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your chat, but Y/N and I have a last minute meeting, so we better get going to make it.” Harry chimes in before Y/N could reply.

“Oh, a meeting? This late?” Damian asks with furrowed eyebrows.

“Yeah, the others are… in… London.”

“It’s five am in London,” Damian pushes, checking the time on his Rolex.

“Yeah, they like to work early in the morning, I’m sorry. But it was so nice meeting you!”

He circles an arm around Y/N’s waist and gently starts leading her away from the man and for once, she doesn’t protest. They don’t wait for a reply from Damian before they turn around and leave. Luckily, the car arrives just on time and Harry helps Y/N get inside before joining her on the backseat. Y/N gives the driver her address and then lets it all out.

“What a stupid fucking asshole!” Y/N snaps finally, now that she can freely say all of her thoughts out loud. “I bet he hates all women! He thinks we are just not as good as men in… anything!”

“He really is an asshole, don’t let him have this, you’re better than this.”

“What’s the use of being better if men like him are leading the whole industry?!”

Harry opens his mouth, but then nothing comes out of it. He could tell her the same thing over and over again, to just ignore and get over it, but they both know what she just said is painfully true. So instead, they sit in silence and he lets her rage internally in peace.

When they arrive at her house she is so quick to jump out, Harry grunts as he tries to catch up with her.

“Y/N, wait!” “What? What is it, Harry?” she snaps, clearly still upset.

“I get it that you’re mad and what Damian said was terrible, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’re amazing at what you do, okay? And that’s what matters.”

“I know that I’m good, okay? And I don’t need your confirmation about that.”

Normally this would have been a spicy comeback, but it just lacks her usual wit this time, so it came out… kind of sad. She is looking at her with an expression Harry hasn’t seen, not lately at least and he is not sure what to do. This might be the moment when he should leave, but right when he is about to turn around and walk back to the car…

She kisses him.

This time he knows it was her, but he is eagerly returning it in an instant. It’s the same hunger as that night at the bar, but somehow still different. When she starts pulling him towards the front door he stops, but just so he could form a few words.

“Want me to stay?” he manages to ask between kisses and she just nods in a rush, still pulling him. Harry waves back at the car blindly so the driver knows not to wait for him. “We won’t talk about this either?” he then asks just as she kicks the front door open, still kissing.

“No,” she answers shortly and then they disappear inside.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb

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j4keluver · 16 days

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7 acts of love

heeseung knows you’re not a committed gamer like he is. ( “babe just one more round, i’ll sleep at 4:00 am, promise !” hee) he has multiple leauge accounts but one is specifically for you to play on. he keeps a steady ranking for you and teaches you one on one on that account without the pressure of competition. the only thing is that you can’t change the username since he’s the only one with the controls. guess you’re stuck with ‘donttouchmemybfcanfight’

believe it or not, jay is a journal fanatic. his multiple journals go from jotting grocery list to his most personal thoughts but there is a special journal that he keeps away from the eyes of anybody. it's a simple white journal with a polaroid of you taped to the top that is filled to the brim of song lyrics based on jay's fondness to you. there are little, wonky doodles of you on every page and he uses a photobooth strip of the both of you as a book mark. call him corny but god, this man loves you. who knows, this song might end up at your wedding?

jake never leaves the house without giving you a little smoochy, even when he leaves for early morning practice. in his words, 'your lips are just so addicting. i can never get enough.' (corny) when you're awake, he’ll always give you a kiss on the lips, dragging it longer than he needs to (“ you’re gonna be late-“ you “ i don’t care” *kiss* jake) when you’re asleep, it’ll be the lightest peck on the cheek or forehead. you’ll most likely still be sleeping until layla decides she wants some kisses too.

sunghoon isn’t the best with words when expressing his love for you and he knows that. he’s gotten better over the years but he’s still timid at times, feeling tounge tied at the thought of speaking up. you often fall asleep next to each other, you drifting off the sleep first. he'll turn to you, eyes turning into crescents, pure adoration flowing. he will slowly lift his hand to caress your check, so softly that it won't disturb. you with his touch being as gentle as a feather, he’ll whisper, “i love you”

the amount of photos sunoo has in his camera roll is actually insane. he takes an ungodly amount of photos of you. he doesn't delete any of them because he thinks you looks breathtaking in every picture. unless you really hate the picture and bribe with a kiss. even with that, only a select one or two get deleted. the pictures range from your date outings, you washing the dishes, to taking off your makeup. he’s run out of storage many times but refuses to delete your pictures and ends up buying more icloud.

with his spare time, jungwon can never doubt a good book. you also enjoying your selected books, you and him often wind down with some books you bought on a date. you were always used to scribbling your thoughts down on the side but your eyebrow corked when you see jungwon jotting down notes. “what are you doing?” you ask as you lean over to look. he closes the book and smiles, “nothing.” you shrug it off as jungwon continues to write how beautiful you look in this moment, attention long gone from the book. (she’s so beautiful oh me gee, hopefully she never opens this book, HER SMILE)

riki has artistic talent in a lot of aspects of his life. he becomes one with music when he dances, feeling every beat exude through his veins. his voice flows like smooth honey with lyrics. his art pieces blend in beautiful harmony to create an artwork even picasso would be proud of. he sketches you more than he would like to every admit. during class, lunch breaks, at night when he can’t sleep; he can’t help it. he knows your features like the back of his hand. every dimple, crease, texture, rosiness to your face, he never misses a detail.

#enhypen imagines #enhypen #enhypen reactions #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #jake sim #park jongseong #park sunghoon #yang jungwon #nishimura riki #kim sunoo #lee heeseung

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gay-dorito-dust · 11 months

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hobie brown (spider-punk!!) is giving me severe brain rot, i love him sm 😭

if you ever decide to write for him, could you do some relationship hcs??

ty ^^

Not sure wether this is what you wanted but I hope it was worth it.

Music from the heart:

One of the most obvious ones is that Hobie would have a plethora of songs about you, it’s fucking adorable and so sweet, and so he would play them for you within the comfort of your room because where else would you rather be serenaded?

If anything it makes the moment more special and memorable for the both of you as something you can look back on with fondness.

Though you probably try teasing him one day by asking how many more songs of you he had in the works and Hobie would either say ‘too many to count.’ Or ‘a whole albums worth.’ He’s not going to hide the fact that he’s got notebook after notebook filled with song lyrics dedicated to you.

Pda though not quite:

Hobie isn’t the type to heavily involve himself in PDA but isn’t against the likes of:

holding hands.

his hand being placed on the small of your back when guiding you somewhere else.

the classic arm over the shoulder.

Thigh holding

His/ your head resting on each others shoulders and or laps.

Guitar pick:

This one came to my head out of the blue but I’m gonna add it here even though I’m not too certain but here it is anyway:

if Hobie uses guitar picks to play his guitar -which he probs doesn’t but idk- I’d like to think he’d make you a guitar pick necklace from one of his old picks.

Sure he hates gifts and such but this is the sole expectation alongside any and all handcrafted jewellery you may give him because he wears that shit with pride.

Terms of endearment:

Love

Darling

Sweetheart

Impromptu sleepovers:

Hobie crashes at your place more often then not to the point he might as well be living with you in regards of how often he leaves something of his at yours, so much so you’ve begun to wonder if he was doing it intentionally or accidentally.

Either way you made sure that his stay was comfortable by having a makeshift bed set up for him so he didn’t have to constantly sleep on the uncomfortable couch and wake up with a crooked neck.

Hobie appreciates all that you do for him but would often tell you it’s not necessary but you weren’t about to get into a discussion about whether or not he was deserving of help because the answer was obvious and that answer would always and forever will be; yes.

Also he’s a bit of a cuddle bug but only with you but that’s your little secrete.

Date nights:

Most, if not all of your dates are either just the pair of you being your natural selves in the comfort of your own home where’d you would talk about anything and everything that came to your mind, free of judgment.

showing Hobie your undying love and support by showing up to his gigs and scream the loudest because he is talented as shit and deserves a lot more in your eyes.

Either way as long as you were within each others company, anywhere you both went could be considered a date.

Spidey business:

Now this is all dependant on wether or not you know he’s Spider-Man:

If you did then you’d probably would help him patch up his wounds after every fight he had

If you weren’t due to Hobie wanting nothing more then to keep you and that life as far from each other as possible, you’d most definitely would be concerned when you see him with any sustained injuries he tried patching up himself.

No matter how hard you try to get him to tell you what’s wrong, Hobie would just tell you it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

Meeting his friends/ Bragging rights:

Before introducing you to the likes of Pavitr, Miles and Gwen(if you haven’t already met her), it’s almost an 100% guarantee that he brags about you anyway he knows how which only intrigues them more and more to the point they’re just pleading with Hobie to introduce his cool, kickass partner to them.

So when he does, the three are practically hounding you about your relationship with Hobie and when you looked back at him for help in wrangling in his over excited friends, the little shit merely smirks and shrugs his shoulders as though he had no idea they’d react like this, all the while leaning on the wall with his arms crossed over his chest; happy to see all his favourite people he cares about a lot interacting with one another to the point that by the end of the day you’re very good friends with each of them.

#spiderman atsv x you #spiderman atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv imagines #spiderman atsv x reader #spiderman atsv fic #spiderman atsv imagine #spider punk x reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown imagines #hobie brown imagine #hobie brown x you #aross the spiderverse #spiderverse imagine #spiderverse x reader

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feyascorner · 4 months

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3 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You hate him, you think. You want to hate him, at the very least.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” he asks, his expression indecipherable. “I didn’t realize the great savior of the city could be afraid of a mere vampire spawn.”

“You did try to strangle me last time we spoke."

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard, large chunks of italicized texts are flashbacks

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. redemption arc is coming i swear :) this is a whopping 4.7k i got kinda carried away but oh well,, Thank you so much for your comments on these they make my day and i appreciate each one<3

Dance upon the stars tonight

Smile and pain will fade away

“And what might our dear bard be working so passionately on?”

You look up from your notebook, ceasing the messy scribbling of lyrics into its tattered pages. Astarion perches himself beside you, the flames of the campfire flickering in the reflection of his eyes as you stop humming and raise a cautious brow. A vampire spawn. You’d never seen one in person–-only had you heard of them in your childhood tales of the spawn that would sweep away naughty children if they didn’t finish their vegetables. Up close, you can almost see his fangs protruding from the grin he's constantly wearing.

You wonder if it’s a genuine one.

“That bard at the grove today,” you recall. “Alfira? I’m trying to finish the lyrics and write them out for her.”

“Is that so? Surely you’re receiving some sort of payment for these gracious services?”

You train your eyes back onto the pages, shaking your head. “I’m doing this for fun. Her song is beautiful. It just needs—” you squint. “--adjustment.”

He laughs, and you can see the fangs clearly now. They’re sharper than you expected them to be. “I believe that’s a drastic understatement, my dear. My heart felt for those poor squirrels. I’m quite willing to bet that they have an aversion to bards now.”

“And you’re suddenly a musician yourself?”

“It doesn’t take a musician to recognize poor singing, darling Tav,” he returns. “And considering I’ve spent the past few days listening to your music, I’m sure you’ll understand why I considered it such an abomination.”

You narrow your eyes. “I thought you didn’t like me–or my music.”

“You? I'm still deciding,” he shrugs and you roll your eyes. “But I must say that I’m growing rather fond of that lyre of yours. Have you had it for long?”

You give him a sidelong glance before answering slowly. “I’ve had it for ages. Practically when I just started.”

“Explains itself then, I suppose.”

“And you?” you watch as he leans back on his palms. “Do you have any other talents to offer to our companions, or is it just your teeth?”

“Now, don’t be so cruel, dear,” he smiles wider. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re rather fond of them as well. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring all the time.”

“I’m on guard,” you clarify.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You’re not sure if you can sleep with one eye open, much less both of them closed. You’re not sure if you trust him at all, either, but as he stares up at the starry sky, simply listening to the crackling of the campfire, you decide you’d rather save yourself the energy for what awaits tomorrow.

“Why did you do that earlier?” you find yourself asking, and he replies by glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Do what?”

“Save Wyll from that goblin arrow,” you mumble. “I thought you didn't care about any of us.”

“And what gives you that impression?”

You deadpan, staring at him with lidded eyes and he laughs out loud. It sounds more genuine than anything else he’s offered so far. It's nice.

“It’s a simple transaction, dear. One where I receive protection in turn for the occasional aid I can give with my own blade.”

You squint at him, but you see no signs of deception. So instead, you simply nod and resume scribbling into your notebook, softly humming to yourself alongside the lyrics. And when you halt, stuck on a particular lyric that you can’t seem to remember, you hear him shift, standing himself back up to retreat to his tent.

“Something about faith and care comes next if my memory serves,” is all he says before striding away. While you watch him in confusion, you click your tongue and try to focus again. And when you look down at your page, you remember the rest of the words.

Somehow, you feel the corners of your lips lift.

“As much as I’d love for this to be a charming, long-awaited reunion, one of the parties imposes a danger to the other.”

You wince at the sarcasm dripping from Gale’s voice. Duke Ravengard’s expression remains solemn, unmoving like a stone, while your companion pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “We can’t harbor a vampire spawn in our home. We’re supposed to be finding them, not keeping them!”

You hate the irony of the statement because the camp you’d spent so many months in with an uninvited guest in your head, had also been your home. One where you spent your nights in a vampire spawn’s tent. It’s not so different, you keep telling yourself. But you’re painfully aware that the Duke only knows a sugar-coated version of the falling out between you and said vampire. He doesn’t know how his son had to tear Astarion away from you and how your voice had been sore for weeks afterward.

“As much as I have my own opinions with allying with a vampire spawn,” the Duke stares at Astarion warningly. “Wyll did say this spawn saved his life while your party ventured together. For that, I'm willing to see reason if he’s cooperative, rather than restrain him with the Fists.”

You never thought much of it until now. With how many life threatening experiences you and your companions had come across, it felt natural to save one another. At first, it had been out of necessity—fear that one person would turn into an illithid. Yet, with time, you'd all grown fond of each other, one way or another.

You think back to when Astarion had saved Wyll and wonder if that part of him is still in there. Maybe it was never there at all. Maybe it had been another one of his manipulation tactics that you're so prone to falling for.

Gods, you're hopeless.

The wizard standing beside you sighs irritably. “But that was before he tried to squeeze the life out of-”

“How long do we need to keep him?”

Gale balks at your words. “You can’t seriously be considering this.”

“Just until we’re able to locate the rest of the spawns spread throughout the city, which you kindly decided not to mention in our last conversation.”

You shoot Gale a glare, silently questioning if he’d been the one to confess the existence of the spawns underground, but he’s too busy scanning over Astarion, who’s mindlessly fidgeting with his knife. The said spawn seems to feel your gaze, because he glances at you, then grins.

The bastard is smiling.

“The man you killed this morning is a spawn himself, yes?” the Duke clarifies. “There have been numerous reports the past few days about strange figures with fangs throughout the city—I’d known they’d existed, but to the numbers that are being reported…”

“You couldn’t have possibly believed myself to be the only spawn around?” Astarion laughs bitterly. “I do not wish to go hungry, Duke, but I don’t need nearly as many bodies that’s been showing up—assuming that I did drink from anyone, of course.”

Ravengard ignores him, speaking as if he’s not there. “I could still have him detained if that is what you wish. We can continue as we have and search for the spawn without his help.”

You know it’s a fruitless effort if last night has told you anything.

“You don’t even have evidence that I drank from a single person in this entire bloody city!” Astarion spits back, rolling his neck in exasperation.

“No,” you purse your lips, finally looking up. “I’ll be responsible for him.”

Gale clears his throat alarmingly. “Now, dear leader, let’s have a private conversation before we make any hasty decisions, yes? Surely, we don’t have to decide right this moment.”

And while you open your mouth to respond that no, you won’t have Astarion rot away in some gross cell, the Duke nods. “Very well.”

Gale pushes you to the corner of the room, with his face clearly paling in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking. You want someone who nearly strangled you to death sleeping in the room next to yours?”

“Ravengard wants us to find out where the other spawn are hiding, and the only lead we have is sitting right there,” you defend yourself. “Throwing Astarion into a dirty cell won’t do anything to convince him to help us.”

“The Duke doesn’t know what he did to you!”

“He doesn’t need to. Astarion’s made it very clear he’s not going to spill any information if the Duke is the one asking, and we need a lead. I nearly died last night, Gale. I want to avoid that if I can.”

His eyes soften just a bit, but it’s enough. With a loud sigh, he scrunches his nose. “And you’re sure you’re not doing this for more personal reasons?”

At this, you pause. Your eyes waver, and the look Gale gives you is almost soul-crushing if it weren’t for the fact that you feel like you’ve already hit rock bottom. You know this is not a good idea. You know that being so close to him again after so many months is not a good idea, especially when you’ve just finally begun your journey to forget him.

You curse the gods above for your luck.

The silence prompts Gale to speak. “I’ll tell the Duke we can’t involve ourselves in this.”

“Gale,” your voice almost cracks. “Please.”

He doesn’t want to agree, you can tell. Any sane person wouldn’t invite a bloodthirsty vampire spawn who’s willing to use his own hands to kill his so-called lover into their home. You want to think that you’re void of bias, but you know it’s a pathetic attempt to reassure yourself. Still, the expression on your face must be quite the sight because Gale takes one look, glances at Astarion, then slumps his shoulders. You’ve won.

You hadn’t even realized the door had been swung open, where your other companions had been standing, taking one look at Astarion then to you. While Gale wallows in his own defeat, you turn to the others, eyes glimmering with a kind of hope that they haven’t seen in months.

“Your judgment’s gotten us this far,” Shadowheart sighs. “We’d be fools not to trust it now.”

Lae’zel clicks her tongue. “My blade is ready to slit his throat if need be. Just command me, and I shall.”

“We aren’t going to try to kill him," you retort.

“It’s only right to return the favor."

Dinner is awkward. You’re finally getting to try Gale’s stew, but it’s hard to focus on the taste when all you can feel is the searing stare of the person sitting across from you. He only has a goblet of crimson liquid in the same shade as his eyes in front of him, and it remains untouched as he takes in the rest of the house.

“So,” Gale offers. “What have you been up to?”

It’s not much, but it’s better than sitting in complete silence.

“Wandering the streets at night, mostly. Oh, and murdering half the city, apparently,” Astarion lets out his usual high-pitched laugh at the end, and your fingers tighten around your spoon. Shadowheart glares at him through her lashes, and you think she may lunge at him any second. You want to think you wouldn't stop her.

You feel for her, really. Being the group’s cleric comes with its advantages but also with the unspoken burden of watching your companions in pain. She’d been the one to ensure Astarion hadn’t left long-lasting damage to your throat. She’d been the one to soothe your headaches and cast a sleeping spell on you in hopes it’ll allow you to rest longer than just a few hours. She’d also seen you nearly bleed out multiple times, one of which occurred mere hours ago.

The sudden scrape of Lae’zel’s chair being pushed back catches your attention. She stands, lifting her bowl with her. “The air here is suffocating. Sort out your differences before I sort them out for you.”

The rest of you collectively nod. She doesn’t say anything else before leaving the room.

“The room at the end of the hallway upstairs is yours,” Shadowheart says finally. “Don’t bother me if you need anything else.”

She stands up as well, leaving her bowl in the sink before pacing up the stairs to her own quarters.

Somehow, the atmosphere is even worse now. You don’t dare lift your eyes from your stew, and you honestly hope it explodes before you have to sit here and drink all of it in this silence. Gale, thankfully, does not leave. Instead, he sets down his utensil.

“I suggest we have a set of rules in place–for the sake of everyone occupying this home,” he clears his throat. You shoot him a questioning look, which he dusts off.

“Fine,” Astarion leans back in his chair, now swirling the goblet of blood in his hand. “What do you have in mind?”

“No drinking. From anyone here.”

You blink a few times, then hear Astarion hum in acknowledgment. “Shame. Though your blood was vile anyway.”

“And don’t cause any trouble. One of us will go with you when you need to drink, so you can hunt for whatever animal you prefer these days. Otherwise, unless we say so, you’ll remain here.”

“Why, this sounds almost identical to a prison. Looking for a job as a warden, Gale? A midlife crisis, perhaps. Does wizard life not suit you anymore?”

“It suits me plenty, thanks,” Gale snorts. “We’ll be out during the day to rebuild the city, so you’ll have to entertain yourself in your own room. Don’t touch anything—especially my stuff.”

Astarion grins. “That almost sounds like an invitation.”

The wizard then turns to you. “And you? Do you have any other rules you’d like to add?”

You finally lift your head from the stew, looking back and forth between the two before shaking your head while pushing your chair back. For someone who’d imagined aimlessly for months about seeing your former lover again, you can’t seem to look him in the eye for fear of what you might feel. “I’m going out.”

“I’m going to take that as a no.”

Wordlessly, you pace toward the door, refusing to look back to suppress the urge to sprint back into his arms. You don’t know what you were thinking just a few hours ago, but this was not going to end well. If you couldn’t manage a simple dinner sitting across from him, what could you manage?

You’re in such a rush that you forget to bring anything besides your wallet.

By the time you’re on your way back to the house hours later, you have a backpack shoved full of fabrics with nails and a hammer to go along with it. As you pass by the taverns, you hear music playing from inside, alongside a few cheers and what you can only assume to be a crash of chairs as people applaud.

You can’t help but peer through the window as you walk past, where a bard merrily plays on his drum, lightening the mood of the entire tavern—even the bartender smiles along as he plays tunes you’ve heard a million times before. And while your hands itch for a lyre—to feel the string snap against your fingertips—you know no good will come of it. You’ll only sit before the instrument, your hands unable to find the emotions to exert in the form of notes.

As you stare at the bard, you remind yourself you’ve long given up on that kind of life.

So instead, you continue your way to the Highberry’s home. When you knock on the door, a very weary Cora Highberry greets you with bags under her eyes, but a calm smile still stretching on her lips nonetheless. She steps out of the way, inviting you in, and you do so.

“You didn’t have to, dear,” she says as she takes a bag of the city’s finest fruits from your hands. “The neighbors have been oh so gracious to us. They’re helping the children so much, I couldn’t possibly ask for more.”

“I was just passing by, that’s all,” you offer. “I wanted to check on you since I left a bit abruptly last time.”

“Oh, dear, you know how to make a woman feel special. It’s been terrible, really. I haven’t gone so long with my husband in ages…” she laughs, wiping at her swollen eyes. “But we were an old couple anyways…I had some time to prepare my emotions. I just didn’t think he’d go like that.”

You nod as she hands you a mug of hot tea. “But never mind that. I’ve spent the past two weeks talking about nothing but myself, so I’m quite tired. What about you, dear?”

“Me?”

“You look like death themselves,” she frowns. “I’ve lived for quite long…I recognize that heartbroken face anywhere. Has something happened?”

The way she’s staring at you—it’s different than pity. You can’t quite identify it, but she smiles again. It’s not the kind of smile most people give you—not one of anticpation, not one of gratefulness, but just a regular, old smile. And it makes your shoulders untense just the slightest before they tense again. You take a swig of the tea, nearly burning your throat in the process as you set the mug down, splitting a pathetic smile. “No, I’m okay. Just--tired.”

Very, very tired. Not physically, no, but tired of the indecisiveness that is your heart.

Her face falls softly. “How troubling it must be to have the weight of the city on your shoulders."

Before you can answer, there’s a loud thud upstairs. She notices your alarm and shakes her head. “Ah, must be Berry. She’s one of the younger children, and she’s been taking my husband’s death quite hard. Please excuse me, dear. I need to go put her back to sleep.”

And with that, you’re left alone on the first floor of the building again. You contemplate staying to say your farewells but the cries from upstairs convince you otherwise. Taking one last swig from the mug, you gather your things and leave.

When you get back home, it’s well into the night, an hour or two after midnight, you’d think. None of the lights are on, so the first thing you do is light a candle when you step through the door, dropping your backpack onto the dining room table. Dunking all your materials out, you take the hammer and start your work.

There’s something soothing about the darkness outside, with the way nothing seems to exist besides you and your own thoughts in a city that overflows with a sense of community. You try not to think about the man most likely reading in his room just a floor above you and focus on hanging the fabrics in front of all of the windows. The cloths are mismatched in color, and your hammer work is nothing more than sufficient, but it’ll do for now. At least until you can get actual curtains installed.

You worry that some of the fabrics aren’t thick enough to absorb all the sunlight, so you layer another fabric on top of it until you’re sure that even your candlelight cannot be seen from outside. Why you’re going so far for him, you do not know. You prefer to assure yourself that you need him to help stop the spawn from devouring the entire city, but even in your own thoughts, it sounds like a lie.

You wonder if he cares nearly as much as you do. He probably doesn’t.

You hate him, you think for the millionth time today. You want to, at the very least.

You flinch when a splinter in the wooden wall splits your skin open, forming a drop of blood on your index finger. Curse the heavens above, nothing was going right today. You quickly reach for a towel but nearly jump when you hear his voice from the stairs.

“You really need to stop with that habit of yours.”

You spin around, and he’s already at the foot of the stairs, reaching to grab a towel from the kitchen. But you’re faster, snatching it away and pressing it over your hand while he raises both his own, imitating a surrender of getting any closer. You can’t look at him in the eye—you don’t want to either. “What habit?”

“You’re speaking to me now?” he raises a brow, and you turn away again after shooting him a glare. “I’d thought you’d avoid me forever—scurrying off like a squirrel whenever I step into the room.”

You should avoid him forever. But the words don’t reach your tongue, and you choose to ignore him.

He doesn’t budge. “I meant bleeding around me.”

“What?”

“Every time I see you, you always seem to be bleeding.”

You frown at him. “Maybe you just prefer being around me when I’m bleeding.”

“You might be right." You think maybe he’s done with this painfully awkward conversation until you see him staring at the windows covered with random pieces of fabric, and suddenly, you feel embarrassment creep up your skin. You realize how bizarre your actions must appear in someone else’s eyes, staying up to the break of dawn so that he’ll be able to traverse someplace outside the confines of his own room…

It might make him think you care, and the worst part is that a part of you does.

“I hope you don’t expect me to thank you, darling.”

The nickname feels like a stab to your heart, haunting, even, but you do your best to brush it off.

“For what?” you manage to force out through clenched teeth.

“The cell they would’ve thrown me into is nothing different from trapping me in that room, I’m afraid,” he laughs bitterly, and you want to crawl into a hole from how cold his voice sounds. Distant. Like how he’d sounded the day you found him next to his nautiloid pod. “But I suppose I should be grateful for having a bed instead of having to spend my days rotting away on the dirty floor?”

You bite your bottom lip, brows furrowing. “I don't expect anything from you.”

But you do. Not quite an expectation, but a lingering wish that maybe you can heal. It's pathetic, even in your own eyes and surely everyone else's, but you can't be bothered to care.

It pisses you off a bit. How he seems perfectly unfazed while you continue to drown in your own feelings.

“Are you just here to taunt me, or is there a reason for this conversation?” you snap. This is not quite how you wanted your reunion to go.

He raises a brow. “Taunt you? I'm only answering questions you're afraid to ask.”

“I don't need to know anything about you,” you grit through your teeth. “You left my mind the second you abandoned us.”

What a poor, wishful lie.

“Ha!” It doesn't really sound like a laugh—more a scoff of disbelief. It's like he knows what you're thinking, and for a split second, it feels like there's a tadpole in your head again. “Of course you think I'm the villain of your precious heroic tale! Honestly darling, the irony just writes itself.”

You fight the urge to scowl, but you're not sure if you're successful. You find yourself gripping onto the towel harder, teeth clenched as your chest tightens just hearing his words. You truly hate that he seems to care less than you—it’s like he's not even taking you seriously.

And that damned nickname.

It feels like talking to the Astarion you first met—one who’s only intentions were to use you—but this time, you don't think it’s a mask. He doesn't want anything more from you. Only your own suffering from taking the power that would have made him untouchable.

“So tell me, dear, do you wish for me to grovel at your feet?”

Your eyes widen, and the term of endearment that once made your cheeks flush only makes you feel sick. “What?”

“Do you expect me to drop to my knees, begging for your forgiveness?” he says again, eerily composed while you struggle to come up with words. “Perhaps I would have if we were still staying in that camp. Put on a show, even."

You frown, setting your hammer down on the counter. “I’ve never made you grovel. I’ve never made you do anything.”

“Maybe not directly, no, you’re too kind of a soul to do so,” there’s venom lacing the words that feel nothing short of a lie. Somehow, he’s still smiling. “Instead, you made me beg for your help. You accepted—made it feel like I had a choice. Then tore it away just the same, in the cruelest way possible. Impressive, really. I didn't expect such dramatic sins from you.”

The way he looks at you, words dripping with sarcasm, makes you want to melt into the floor, ceasing to exist as a whole. But alas, you continue standing like a deer in headlights, unsure of how to respond. You look down to see the towel stained with your blood and inhale deeply, watching the dark sky lighten with daybreak through the window. “The sun’s rising.”

His smile drops, something foreign flickering in his eyes. He suddenly steps toward you, and as soon as he gets within two feet, you find yourself stepping backward, your fingers tightening around the hammer. You have no idea if you'd even be able to use it, but it's better than digging your nails into your palms.

It doesn't go unnoticed.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” he asks, his expression indecipherable. “I didn’t realize the great savior of the city could be afraid of a mere vampire spawn.”

You don't want to think he'd truly kill you. Not really, but your mind flashes back to the look in his eyes when he had his hands wrapped around your lifeline, and you grip the hammer tighter, heartbeat pounding impossibly fast.

“You did try to strangle me last time we spoke,” you mutter.

His lip twitches, and he steps back bitterly. You feel like you can breathe again.“Ah, yes, that.”

You swear your stomach drops to your feet at the mere suggestion he’d forgotten what haunts your nightmares every night, forcing you to lurch from your rest in a cold sweat, hands shaking, and having nobody to turn to for comfort. He couldn't be that cruel…could he? You want to scream at him, punch him, kick him, tell him he’s not being fair. You want to defend yourself, say that all you’ve ever wanted was for him to be safe, but even that feels like too much when he’s giving you so little.

“Very well, I’ll indulge you,” he grins again. You realize your time is running out, the sun beginning to peer out from the horizon. “Why did you assume responsibility for me? I can’t imagine why you’d want such a terrible foe in your life living right next door of your own sanctuary.”

For the city, you tell yourself. For Cora's husband and the poor victims drained off their life, all alone in the darkest corners of Baldur's Gate. “...I didn’t do it for you.”

He searches your face for something, his eyes narrowing. He's waiting for you to continue, but there's no more fuel in the tank, and now you just want to sleep for a very long time. You assume he comes up empty when the corners of his lips fall, and he turns to climb up the stairs. Sunlight hits your back as your eyes trail him in his steps, and it does nothing to warm how cold it feels in the room.

“That much I’m aware,” he stops his steps for a brief moment. You barely catch it, but it's there. “Terribly aware.”

And when he finally leaves, you bury your face into your hands.

"I'm nervous."

"What for?"

"What if the ascension goes wrong? Are you sure we should really be doing this, Astarion?"

He brushes your hair out of your face, cupping both your cheeks in his hands. "We'll be okay, my love. I will still be here, and so will you. I'll just finally have enough power to protect what I care about."

He sees the hesitance in your eyes and leans his forehead against yours. You melt into his touch, placing your hands atop his.

"So please, stand beside me for this," he pleads.

And despite the way your intuition screams at you otherwise, despite the way your very being begs you to pull away, you nod, sealing your fate.

"I'll be right here."

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luveline · 1 year

Text

𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐬 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

You don’t mean to make an enemy of Eddie Munson — he’s handsome, and talented, but he’s the biggest jerk you’ve ever met. Eddie thinks you’re infuriatingly pretty, emphasis on the infuriating. Too bad you just can’t seem to leave each other alone. [13k]

fem!reader, enemies-to-lovers, rival rockstars, mutual pining (and hatred), slight miscommunication, angst, hurt-comfort, eddie has mixed intentions, kissing / heavy petting, hickeys, sexual tension, eventual hate-fucking, some misogyny (not eddie), TW readers bandmate is a bully, TW drugs/alc/smoking, disclaimer: I can’t play an instrument

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Indianapolis International Airport, Indiana, Late 1988.

There's a really sweet-looking boy sitting in the chair across from you. The airport is blotted out by both your headphones —huge chunky cans, the best you could afford— and your sunglasses. He's a shade of sepia from the lenses, dark hair darker still where it's tucked into the hood of his hoodie.

There's no way he could possibly know you're staring at him while you're facing your lap, scribbling lyrics for a song that'll never get made with your body curled inwards, and yet he looks up from the novel in his. He smiles, his cheeks pulled up, and he looks younger. He isn't old by any means but something about his smile is transformative.

You don't mean to give yourself away. You smile back just a little.

He says something. You push your headphones around your neck and break the seal, soft 70's rock replaced by the sounds of the airport, footsteps and clicking and children laughing somewhere behind you.

"I'm sorry," you say, covering the cans of your headphones to cut their weak buzzing, "what did you say?"

"I said you have good taste."

He nods toward your guitar case patterned in overlapping band stickers.

You notice his own case on the seat next to him. It's more conspicuous than your own with only one sticker, a band you've never heard of.

"I wish I could say the same, but I don't know who that is, 'Corroded Coffin'?" you ask, purely curious.

He sits forward, a picture of casual confidence as he drops his face into his palm, elbow digging into the ripped jeans covering his knee. "I'm offended, sweetheart. They're only the best sound to come out of Indiana in the last ten years."

"The Stacey's?" you offer, scandalised by his suggestion. "Doorway to Cooperstown? The Cats?"

He blinks at you. "You know the scene."

"It's my scene," you say.

You don't mean to sound pretentious, and hopefully you don't, but music is your life.

"It's mine, too," he says. He leans forward and scrubs a hand through his hair, scratching absentmindedly. "Where are you going? Must be pretty important to tear you away."

"New York. I'm– I'm a techie for Godless. I will be, once I get there." You sound smug and nervous at the same time.

"Holy shit," he says. He smiles a gorgeous, awful kind of smile, like you've been friends for years, and your good news is his. "No fucking way. Go you."

Godless have been compared to loads of bands but the one you favour is a heavier, feminine The Clash. It's an emerging sound, punk rock stolen, repurposed, and remade. Reborn by girlhood rage. You love their sound (though you have some notes), you love their statement, and you're probably the happiest you've ever been knowing you'll be behind the scenes of a new era of music.

"And you're taking her?" he asks, gesturing to your guitar case.

Inside is a beat up old bass guitar you got for nothing. You're self-taught, you're good, but you don't have any disillusions on what you'll be doing on tour.

"She's worthless," you say, "mostly taking her for company." You reuse his pronouns, though you aren't the type to assign personality to your instruments. "What about you, uh–"

"Eddie," he says, taking his guitar case into two fine hands. Your eyes snag on his ragtag assortment of rings, and he leans over the neck of the case to retake your gaze. "This… is Sweetheart."

—

Hotel Edison, New York, Early 1990.

"We have to go. Why are you guys never ready when I tell you to be?"

You panic slightly. "I need a minute."

"Ananya, could you find, like, a modicum of patience? Fucking annoying."

Sharp, Morgan's unhappiness sounds over the droning drill of your shitty hair dryer. You shift where you're kneeling in front of the floor length mirror to check she isn't talking to you — unusual, but not impossible that her hostility would be aimed at someone who isn't Ananya.

Ananya stands in the middle of the hotel room, thick eyebrows pulled into a familiar scowl.

"Get it together," she says disdainfully, like Morgan's nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

You wish you had her confidence when it comes to Morgan's tantrums. You stand up, clad in nothing more than underwear and a pair of black stockings, your t-shirt in one hand and the hairdryer still humming in the other. You turn it off and let it drop to the floor, worried you're just another rockstar cliche as you take in the state of your room. Your suitcase is open and your clothes are all over the place, laid flat in an attempt to dry your rain-soaked clothes. Your underwear dangle from the lampshade, a mix of pretty lingerie you've yet to wear and full-shaped panties that had made Morgan laugh for a minute, no pauses.

"I can see why you're so desperate," she'd barbed.

You slip your shirt over your head in case you have to act as a human shield. It's honestly not the worst thing they've had you involved in this year.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Morgan asks.

She's a fascinating creature in that she isn't always talking with thinly veiled passive aggression. You genuinely believe she's looking out for you sometimes, or believe that she believes it, at least. She doesn't say it with malice, simply asks.

She's multi-faceted.

"No," you say, though you'd been meaning to.

"Good, skirts really aren't your thing. You look blocky. I have a pair of flares in my bag, wear them."

And Morgan — Morgan's the lead singer of Godless. You don't really have a choice.

You find the pants she'd instructed you to wear and half tuck your shirt, scrabbling for your shoes as Ananya starts lamenting the time, sat on the small table by the TV.

"They have to wait for us, babe, that's the whole point," Morgan says, fussing over her eye make-up.

"No, they don't. And we really don't need the attention right now."

"That's dramatic."

Ananya leans forward and clicks on the TV with a perfect finger. The screen buzzes to life. She clicks through the channels until she gets to the local news station, and then she slumps over the frame on her elbow.

You giggle behind your hand. Onscreen, images of Morgan are blown up and slated, your bandmate sloppy drunk on the steps of Covey Gold. They've caught you red-handed in the background pretending you aren't with her, but luckily Morgan's too obsessed with herself to notice.

"I really don't see the issue," she says breezily, slipping into her tiny heels one foot at a time. "I look sick."

She looks stunning, easily, but that's not the problem.

"You have a fucking snow trail," Ananya says.

Unfortunately, Morgan's left nostril is crusted with coke.

"It's punk rock!" Morgan's moved onto earrings now, and she's jutting her tiny pointed chin toward the door. "Hello? We're late."

You don't roll your eyes, but you could. You slip your shoes onto your feet and tuck the laces inside without tying them while the news anchor on TV continues to relay current events.

"Fletcher isn't the only rockstar making a mess in New York City this week. Members of up and coming heavy metal band Corroded Coffin were sanctioned by Flume Venues Tuesday night for damaging twenty six thousand dollars worth of equipment when their lead guitarist kicked over an amp and caused a quote unquote 'domino effect.'" The anchor laughs. "Their PR has certainly felt some corrosion."

You look up at the joke and are just in time to catch a picture splayed across the screen of the band. You're so close that their faces are made up of red, blue, and green, more colour than photo. Your skin glows with the image. Your eyes widen, perplexed.

"Do we know those guys?" you ask.

Morgan grabs your hand and drags you up. "They know us," she says. "That's what matters."

Ananya turns off the TV.

You're thrilled at being included in the 'us'. You've been an unofficial official member of Godless for four months now. Each one feels more unreal than the first, and each one brings a solidity. In Ananya's words, you're on 'probation, given you can keep up', but you look at her now, her hopeless expression as she closes your room door behind you, and know she's not hoisting you off the stage anytime soon. She'd have to deal with the world's tallest toddler alone.

Your tour manager and assorted personnel meet you in the hotel's lobby, furious and panicky at your being late. Morgan spouts the same spiel as you get shepherded into cars idling outside of the hotel.

"We're the talent. What were you gonna do, throw the gig without us?"

You're both embarrassed by her and impressed. Morgan is pretty and talented and extremely loud — she's not afraid to stick up for herself, even when she's (nearly always) wrong. She sees each hurdle in her life as an unfair disadvantage. Insanity, in your opinion, considering nearly all of those hurdles have been jumped by means of a favour, rather than any expended effort on her part.

Her bad attitude aside, she's a good singer. She's gorgeous, exactly the kind of face that obliterates mainstream reluctance.

She sits between you and Ananya and kicks her feet out over the console, boots between your driver and your tour manager, Angel.

"You guys can't be late like this. You have half the time you need for sound check now, you realise?"

"I don't need practice," Morgan says.

"It's not practice, Morgan, it's–"

Morgan laughs and bursts into song. She does it whenever she doesn't want to listen to Angel, and she sings an apt tune: Angel by Aerosmith. You look out the window rather than watch, eyes snagging on the wet New York streets and taxis and people, so many people despite the weather, black umbrellas like inverse stars lining the sidewalks.

Morgan has a great voice, raw when she wants it to be and full of life when she doesn't. You can't hear Angel's venue instructions under it and are barely paying attention as a lanyard gets tossed into your lap. It sounds stupid, and a few months ago you wouldn't believe it, but you get used to the motions. Ferried from one place to another, all anybody cares about is technicalities, politics, public image, and how you look on stage. All you care about is the music. Your bass guitar in your hands, that familiar weight, the strings as your pick slides across them, and the sea of the crowd. Its waves and ripples, hands and eyes and mouths like poppies, red-pink tongues and black throats at the centre as they scream. When you throw your pick people want to catch it. They fight over it. You throw a few. There's always more in a box in some poor techies bag.

The cushy car you're in pulls up and parks outside of the venue's main entrance. You climb onto a wet curb and shield the top of your hand with your head, dirty rain splashing down in fat, sparse drops that chill your scalp. Morgan blitzes inside and Ananya tags behind her. You go slower, eyes following down the sidewalk where, in a couple of hours, fans will wait to see you, shivering in the cold.

—

Every breath Gareth takes sucks in Eddie's short sleeved t-shirt. Eddie scowls at the top of his bandmate's head and tries to shift away.

"Seriously, man? There's a whole fucking couch," Eddie grouches.

Gareth sits up with bleary eyes furrowed into a scowl of his own. He's pale and missing his glasses, giving him the appearance of a concerned zombie.

"Shithead."

Eddie has a lot of emotions he wants to express and none he feels he can properly articulate. The injustice of his current situation, for one, is a burning irritant. How the fuck can you get grounded by your manager? And why did his warden have to be the most boring member of the band? Sorry Gareth.

"Can't you sleep in your bed?" Eddie asks.

"You'll sneak out."

Eddie will sneak out. He's a fledgling rockstar in New York. Suddenly, there are a hundred colourful boozy doors wide open to him, and he intends on haunting the threshold of each one accordingly.

But you kick one amp and boom, you're the antichrist.

"You know this is stupid."

Gareth rubs his eyes. "I mean, do I know that?" He reaches behind the couch armrest for the two-litre bottle of soda stashed there, and he talks as he brings the lip to his mouth. "You've been a real pissant lately, Munson."

"You're a pissant, pissant," Eddie says, really scowling now.

Gareth kicks him across the sofa. Eddie kicks back, foot jamming into the side of Gareth's knees. Soda spills in a shoot over the carpet. Gareth is a know-it-all with a predisposition for being as unpleasant as he can possibly be at all times, in Eddie's opinion, and Eddie knows the second the soda lands what he's going to say.

"Nice going, hotshot. This is why you're fucking grounded."

Eddie's halfway across the sofa when the door opens, an unimpressed Jamison standing with the light behind him. He flicks on the main switch and glares, brown skin golden in the resulting yellow light.

"What are you losers doing?"

"I prefer the term 'freak'," Gareth says, glare softening. "I'm fending off Munson's advances, what does it look like? No means no, asshole."

"You're disgusting," Eddie says.

"You look disgusting," Jamison echoes. "I don't know who forgot to tell you, but they invented running water a century ago. Go shower. I'll watch baby boy."

Eddie thinks Jamison is hot in the freaky way — Jamison is conventionally attractive, and Eddie would let him get freaky if he asked. He has a perfect complexion, the most attractive of the band by far, medium brown skin and a broad-shouldered frame. He's the eye-candy, literally; they'd admitted him into the fold based one parts on his talent, two parts his image.

He can play piano, guitar, bass guitar, violin, all that shit. He's a musician, and he's better than Eddie at everything but the guitar.

Nobody's better than Eddie on guitar. At least, not anybody running in his circles.

"I can't shower, I'm watching him."

"I'll watch him," Jamison says, like this is extremely obvious and Gareth is an idiot.

Eddie pulls a couch cushion over his face and drags himself onto his back, whining into the fabric unhappily. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters

"This is due diligence," Gareth says. Eddie feels his weight lift off the couch and lets his legs slide into the empty space.

"This is fucking bullshit," he repeats.

There's a silence. He sulks. Gareth collects toiletries and the bathroom door clicks open and closed. The shower spray begins to sputter, and then the pillow is being tugged out of Eddie's hands and tossed aside.

"Jame," he protests.

"Shut up." Jamison stares down at Eddie. "Are you done being a child?"

"I already told you, it was an accident. Yeah, I kicked the amp, because my fucking string snapped and nobody would listen to me. I didn't know it was gonna actually move."

"If we go out, can you behave?" Jamison asks quietly.

Eddie sits up ramrod straight. "Absolutely… Why? What's so important?"

"Jeff's asleep, I'm bored, and-" He shrugs offhandedly. "If you got 'em, flaunt 'em?"

Jamison holds up a silver pair of car keys. They clink together, the sound music to Eddie's ears.

—

So you and Eddie meet for the second time like this.

“Does it have to be this loud?” you shout over the music, pleading gaze on Ananya, who shrugs.

She looks better after a show, even drunk. Her lipstick is a pink-red with a darker but incomprehensible outline, leaving her looking kissed sick. Her dark eyebrows are ruffled and thick, their minimal gel sweated off. She has the most heartbreaking expression about her, and you think it isn’t truly fair, how she can look so pretty and be so talented at the same time. A tragedy that other people have time for both. You feel as though you barely have the time for one.

Despite the volume, you love the sound. This is your sound. Small town hatred in a big room — begging to get out and the music proof enough that you did. It’s passionate and anxious, a two-chord progression that’s boggling simplistic but drawing you in anyhow. Wrinkled noses and bored eyes say it’s not to everyone’s taste, but you’d hazard a guess that whoever plugged it into the stereo isn’t the kind of person who worries about public opinion. If Godless worked more on your choices, this is how you’d sound.

“Whose house are we in?” you ask.

“Babe,” Ananya says, “seriously, there’s a whole room of people who want to answer you. Go bother someone.” Else. Go bother someone else.

She dismisses you with little more than that, slinking into the kitchen with a toss of her thick hair. The red of her corset top darkens to a bloodier shade in the mood lighting. She looks as though she’s bleeding out from the back.

You aren’t sure Ananya’s right. You aren’t, in the eyes of the people here, anything impressive. A techie who’s been filling in isn’t anything new, no, you’re only impressive if you get to stay, if you play better than anybody else. You’re never gonna prove that under Morgan’s thumb, and you’ll never prove it without her.

I need a bump, you think. Morgan’s coke nose flashes in your mind and you change your mind. I need something to drink. Something fucking cold, but if Ananya thinks you’ve followed her into the kitchen she’ll throw a pissy fit in front of everybody.

The room is a gaudy yellow, a tobacco stained fingerprint over the lampshade with whorls of dirt in lines, darker patches where shadier reconciliation plays; in one corner, a bag of coke, another something worse. This had been a surprise with age rather than location, the commonplace of cocaine and the bravado of its sufferers from high school and up. You’d die for some of that cocky confidence now, numb gums and a sullen credit card.

I need to get paid.

The heat of a cigarette tip kisses your shoulder. In your ear, the sound of someone taking a long, slow drag, crackling paper. You turn into it slowly, looking up slower, right into the skinny face of your missing-in-action bandmate.

“What’s up?” Morgan asks, blowing her smoke in your face. Your eyes burn.

She’s placing the cigarette between your lips before you can answer. Whether she believes she’s tormenting you or throwing you a life raft, you’re grateful for it, sucking in a blistering breath and wincing as it floods your nose.

You blow it away from her.

“Ashtray?” you ask, pinching the cig between two fingers.

“The floor’s fine.”

You raise your eyebrows, unsurprised at her cavalier suggestion and flick it still smouldering into your cupped palm. The door is perpetually open, guests flicking in and out like the froth of a cresting wave, a rushing entrance and a sluggish recession.

“Can you get me a bag?” you ask her.

“I’m not your daddy,” she murmurs.

“Bored already?”

“I have to be bored?”

To bother bothering you? Yes, Morgan would have to be bored. Bored or wasted, and she doesn’t seem inebriated. You place the cig between your teeth and lean your head back to look at the ceiling rather than give her the attentive watching she desires, the roof of your mouth an uncomfortable heat.

You remove it, blow all your smoke skyward, and drop your head. “How are you gonna fuck with me tonight?” you ask plainly.

You find you aren’t asking Morgan.

In her place stands a much taller, much more handsome face, big eyes set into pale skin. You don't recognise him at first. He wears the uniform well, in company with every other guy in the room, a crumpled shirt you imagine discarded and re-discarded on different floors. Ripped, dark jeans. He could be wearing nothing at all and the air of intimidation surrounding him would survive — there's something behind his eyes that alarms you, a knife's edge. Sweetness bordering cruelty.

"I don't know yet," he says. An insipid smile takes his lips from corner to corner as he eases the cig from your hand. "I'm sure we can think of something… together. Sweetheart."

Boys don't always give you the time of day, not the nice ones, and he doesn't look very nice. He looks like he's trying to calculate what he can get out of you. You're thinking you'll pay just about anything if he can get you a bump of something fun.

He sees your look too, his lips poised to mention it, but you've just realised where you know him from.

"I saw you on TV."

"Yeah? In Madison Square Garden?"

"In court." You give him your best doe eyes, a soft, sweet look, far from mastered and yet effective where it counts. "How much did you have to pay for all the stuff you broke?"

His smile shutters, realigns. A split-second and enough to let you know his cool gaze is nothing more than a parlour trick.

"You look familiar," he says.

You hum. "Rollerboy paid, huh?"

He glares, the idea that his record label might pay for the damages he'd caused laughable and undoubtedly correct. You aren't trying to make enemies, aren't attempting to play someone you're not — you're meek mannered, mollycoddled, too naive to be in the industry for very long. You can see it on his face, exactly what he's thinking, and it's easy to see because everybody else is thinking it too. Even you.

Before you can repair the offence you've caused, he's dropping your stolen cigarette on the ground and grinding out the flame.

"Nice to meet you," he says slowly.

You stare straight ahead and listen to him leave. Smoke tickles your nose. When you look down, the cigarette is smouldering. You squat down, pick up the flattened bud, and drive it into the floor until your fingers are black with soot.

You wrap those same ashy fingers around the neck of a bottle of coke and try not to be too pissy about it. Fucking rockstars and their fucking egos. He did something embarrassing, and you're the villain?

You feel bad halfway through your coke. Maybe he'd had nice intentions, but how could you know? You'd talked for all of two minutes. And even if he was bad news, he likely wouldn't have been any worse than half the jerks here.

He'd have had a handsome face to look up into while said intentions were being acted out, at least.

You frown more. Wishing you'd been nicer to him because you're bored enough to want to get laid isn't strictly kind. Human, maybe.

The feeling worsens when his appearance garners a small crowd. He sits in a nest of dirty couch cushions and a cloud of smoke, the smell of green strong enough to irritate you from here, telling a story with frenetic hands, and despite the cool look he'd given you earlier, he's making a show of it. Cussing, giggling, blunt between his lips as he ushers for a zippo. A pretty girl with surfer curls relights it, an act of flirting in the way she pulls her shoulders in.

He takes the blunt from between his lips and blows the smoke so it misses her completely.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he says, voice rough as hewn stone.

You kick one shoe behind the other and squeeze your tired thighs together. You get this feeling like a matchstick, red powdered head flicking against gritty scratchpad but failing to strike. Something is familiar about the way he speaks, his sticky inflection.

Or you're lying to yourself, and you just like the way he talks

The way he would've spoken, thick fingers braceleting your wrists as he forces your hands into the pillow behind your head, the weight of his body on top of yours, the snugness of a knee between your soft thighs. Your hotel light would've kissed his left side, dividing his curls into strands, the individuals glowing like silver thread as they danced over your cheek and temple, as his breath warmed your lips, as he closed the distance.

Joan, you could hit him.

"That's an unfortunate hand. Are you sober?"

Cheeks full of heat at being caught in a fantasy, you lift your eyes and meet light, almond brown eyes almost entirely shielded by darker eyebrows. A man stands in front of you, a comfortable gap between his nondescript skate shoes and your worn boots. He's tall and pretty and surprising: he's smiling at you like you're something worth smiling at.

"I'm–" You brandish the bottle as if that might explain it but harshly set it aside. "No, not sober. I mean, not willingly. Coke's were out here, so…"

"Oh, right," he says, nodding knowledgeably. "Right, I was sorry to hear about that."

You lick your lips. "'Bout what?"

"They banned beautiful women from the kitchen," he says. "Hadn't you heard?"

"No, that one passed me by."

"I'm Jamison," he says, holding out his free hand.

You take it. You tell him your name.

—

Morgan is crying. Big heaping sobs that she attempts to talk through, creating this ringing whining sound that fills you top to toe with anxiety. You lean back in your hotel bed, wondering what it is in the world that could've happened to her as a kid to make her this unsatisfied now. Ananya blows on her freshly painted nails though they've been dry for hours, knee to knee with you atop the squishy hotel sheets.

"I can't fucking do this," Morgan cries, tears dripping down her bare skinned cheeks.

The three of you have been sworn off of makeup, junk food, and unapproved wash products for the next four to five hours. You're happy for this to continue until the end of time. Morgan, less so.

You're trying to decipher exactly why she's crying, feeling a confusion you'd liken to the first modern day archaeologist that laid eyes on ancient hieroglyphics. All these symbols and colours and stories. No clear translation.

If Ananya were an archaeologist, she's the kind who got to see the Rosetta stone. Morgan's moods make sense to her, and while she often doesn't empathise with her, she at least knows what to say to appease the worst of it.

"It'll be alright, Morgs," she says, her faux sympathy unconvincing.

You feel a little sorry for Morgan and clear your throat. "And you're not by yourself. We're here."

"Fucking amazing help you've been," Morgan says. Her voice does a theatrical peak, pure hysterics.

It irks you how good she looks. You think that, maybe, if you could make your problems pretty the way that she does, you'd be a lot happier overall. You've often lamented that you suffer the kind of unhappiness that makes people uncomfortable and unwilling. You cry ugly, and always alone, hands over your mouth to smother the sounds, and that's when you do cry. Mostly, you bounce around inside yourself and feel very afraid that this feeling is forever.

But, you think presently, that isn't Morgan's fault. Not all of it.

Morgan throws her hands out at you and Ananya and spins on her heel, through the bathroom and into her own separate room.

"At least the backdrop of her breakdown is nice," you murmur, hugging the pillow against your stomach, heels digging into the mattress to keep your knees up.

Ananya snorts and flicks to the next page of her magazine. "Right?" She stretches her naked legs out over your sheets. You know she's decided to ruin your bed with her after-waxing oils rather than her own. "Better here than back home."

"Why's she so upset?" you ask.

Already, your thoughts are starting to drift. You take another peek at the phone across the room and will it into ringing.

"She draws them on everyday anyway," Ananya says agreeably.

You summarise that Morgan's eyebrows are the root of the problem. You don't blame her for wanting to look perfect tomorrow night. Your stomach is a weight every time you think about it, solid as petrified wood. This will be your first TV appearance that isn't a recorded concert, a mid-show performance for the Prover Music Awards, and it should further cement your place in the band. If you look good and people like you, public favour might be enough to keep you around. If they don't, there'll be a couple hundred different audience members with industry links. If you play well, and you're certain you will, you might finally prove to Morgan, Ananya, and the rest of the management team that you're worth choosing.

You want it badly. You want lots of things, and being a real part of Godless could hand them all to you on a studded platter. Recognition of your talent, further experience, the chance to perform and be supported, to be adored, and the money isn't something you'll pretend you don't think about. A rockstar's salary is hardly stable, but a lack of stability is almost always supplemented by the amount. Wouldn't that be nice? To buy your own bass, to buy whatever you liked. To go out and have spa treatments like the one you'd had just this morning whenever you please. To get to feel beautiful and limp as this all the time. More than anything, you want the validation, the poster that comes with it.

If Godless decides to keep you, it's a huge, blinking, neon-lit sign that says you're good enough.

They chose me, and you're stupid for letting me go.

They chose me. I'm something worth something. You didn't see it, but it's there in me.

The subtext isn't important.

You're scared shitless at the reality of performing tonight, knowing any fuck up could follow you, or worse ruin your hopefully budding career in rock for the rest of time. You have this body and this name, and if you want to keep your life you have to be good. It has your fingers itching for your piece-of-shit bass guitar where you know she's hiding under the bed. You should be practising, but this entire week has been practising. The dress rehearsal went well, and you'll give yourself a pass for having certain distractions.

Morgan warbles. You glance at the phone.

"Waiting for someone?" Ananya asks. She misses nothing.

You both wince as Morgan screams and throws something across her bedroom, the eventual clattering smash indicative of a fragile target.

"Think room service will send up a sedative?" she asks.

Room service won't send a sedative, nor will they send the single hashbrown Morgan is apparently craving. You're starting to panic when the solution practically jumps at you.

"Morgan," you say gently, standing in the doorway of her room with a tentative smile, "can't offer you something, can I?"

You hold up your little pouch. Morgan doesn't know you well, but she knows it's where you keep anything interesting. She should know, she pilfers it of anything truly exciting within the day.

"Don't be stupid," she scathes. "My eyes will be bloodshot. You know smoking doesn't agree with me."

You hold in a comment on how she'd literally been smoking out of the window last night.

"It's a brownie. It's a couple days old, but… perfectly edible." You offer her the pouch, dropping it at the end of the bed among her things.

She picks at the brownie, timid princess bites that make you want to roll your eyes. You often think the worst thing about Morgan is that you love her, or you could love her more, if only she felt the same way. She isn't all evil and she never will be, she's just a person. But she takes shit out on you and makes your life harder than it needs to be, so even her most endearing moments fall short.

"This tastes awful."

You laugh and kneel down at her dresser to start putting her thrown jewellery box back together. "It wasn't that nice when I got it," you lie.

You clean her room. Morgan never wants to do anything she knows can be done for her, and you know she won't bother here, not when room service will spend the hour it takes themselves. You think of some poor service worker squaring away the impossible amount of stockings and garters for a sad $3.45 an hour and the task suddenly becomes much more enjoyable.

Morgan doesn't say thank you. You don't insult her intelligence by thinking she isn't aware of what you're doing. She sniffles and blows her nose daintily with a balsam tissue.

"I saw you talking to that guy from Corroded Coffin."

You brush off your knees as you stand. "Which one?"

"Eddie. The rhythm guitarist."

"The loud one."

"He's kind of hot. If he calls, you should go out with him."

"That's not–" who I'm waiting for. You squint at her. "Morgan, that would be terrible."

"Can you get me something from the minibar?"

You kick open her minibar and grab a cold can of seltzer. She slides onto her back and accepts it, pressing it to her eyes with a relaxed smile. Eyebrows forgotten, it seems.

"That would be perfect. He can be the cat to your mouse."

"Your definition of perfect–" You cut yourself off again when she starts to laugh. You don't believe it to be genuine.

She lounges in bed for an hour until she's high, reappearing in you and Ananya's suite with a dizzying smile. You don't mind high Morgan. She's smoked enough in her time to bypass the dizzying, giggly kind of stoner. This Morgan is relaxed, almost easygoing. She sits at the end of your bed and watches you pluck out a bass line proposal for one of their current works in progress, head bobbing.

An hour again and the stylists appear to spray you down with smells and oils and make up, and soon you've been strapped into a short shining dress with a cowl neck, dark black stockings that shine like oil, and heels you can't really walk in. You complain about them politely enough that Mel, the man in charge of your 'costuming', swaps them out for shorter ones.

"This fucking corset is a nightmare," Morgan grumbles.

"Sorry, love, that's all we've got."

The commute is over in a blink. You arrive outside of the venue for the Awards, staring up at its imposing silhouette against the skyline, a dark building in the strange blue night. The sun is unseen but light illuminates the wet streets in blinding patches, so white they glow violet behind your eyes.

There's a modest red carpet where you thankfully don't have to pose for many photos. After all, besides being a temporary member of the stage, you aren't truly in Godless. Most casual fans (the majority of their fan base) only know the faces in the magazines and on TV, and you have yet to be in either until tonight.

After a bundle of shy and regretfully nerve-wracking photos, you're drawn inside the building and away from all the flashing hubbub. You sit in your seats, short rows divided by the occasional table for drinks, and you try not to sink into the carpeted floor. It smells insanely like nothing at all. No bleach, no air conditioning cleanliness. Every now and then another guest walks past your row and you get a whiff of perfume.

A familiar scent pricks your attention.

You look up, slightly over your shoulder, and your eyes meet familiar sticky brown.

He drops down in the seat next to you, and you think, No way.

He holds up the placard that had been under his thigh. His name is typed in clear blocked letters.

It's a strange humiliation to have been read for filth like that. You're you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me expression can be pretty telling, evidently.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Matchstick against the box. You tilt your head and try to place him for the tenth time.

"Have we met before?" you ask.

He actually grins like this is the best thing you could've said. "You met my friend," he says, pointing down the aisle.

Jamison stands talking to a woman who is admittedly gorgeous, and, to your sinking horror, much prettier than you. They kiss each other on the cheek and it's the kind of over friendly to make you sick.

Eddie pouts at you. "Better luck next time, sweet thing." He throws one leg over another. "You look different. New haircut?"

"You look exactly the same," you say.

It's surprising how untouched he is. Sure, he's had some makeup applied and his hairs been tousled into life, but his outfit is remarkable in its simplicity. Surely rockstars can wear suits too? He looks neat and dark and tidy, but he also looks effortless. It's irritating.

This phenomena is not self contained, you find, as his bandmates sit down the row with their managerial chaperones and one date. Jamison sits right at the very end. He doesn't look at you.

You avert your eyes and wonder if it's possible to die from embarrassment.

The venue gets increasingly busy as the bigger names and bands flood inside. Soon, you're sitting amongst legends, people who pretty much spearheaded late 80s glam rock, punk, grunge. People you've only ever seen on TV. And it isn't restricted to alternative sound, there are pop stars and their supermodel girlfriends shaking hands and kissing cheeks in the row behind, while producers with names big enough to make your mouth dry up clap each other on the shoulders in front.

"You'll catch flies."

You turn to Eddie. He doesn't sound entirely cruel. He doesn't sound like much of anything. You could almost believe him to be a friend.

There's a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek.

"You have–" You point at your own cheek, a mirror.

His lightness fades. "Nice."

"No, seriously, you have something. Make up, on your cheek. I have a wipe if you want it."

He scrubs at his cheek ineffectually.

You're reaching out to help before you can stop yourself, witnessing your own actions with a strange out-of-body horror as you wipe the small black line gently. It spreads, and you panic and dab at it until it's an unfortunate grey shadow.

"Let me get the wet wipe," you say. You'd been holding your breath, awkwardness stiff between you, and it sounds too much like a laugh.

Eddie flinches away from your touch and covers his cheek. "I got it," he says stonily.

He leaves, stepping over his bandmates feet like stepping stones, earning a cacophony of protests and disparagments.

Dick, you think. Again, that had been a little bit your fault. Not all of it, he seems to be in a perpetual bad mood that can't be your doing, but you can understand why he might think you were laughing at him, and the defensiveness that comes with it. When he comes back you'll apologise.

Or that's what you tell yourself. The lights go down, the curtains open, and the venue erupts with applause. By the time Eddie takes his seat again you're too afraid of disturbing the quiet.

After half an hour you're ushered backstage. You have to move in front of Eddie and the rest of Corroded Coffin as you go.

He looks up at you in silence. Head tipped back, face barely lit by the lights while you stand in between his legs. His lips part and he's all rockstar, his brown eyes and their edging of straight dark lashes, his pink, pretty lips. He has a distinct line to his nose, a cupid's bow perfectly shaped. His maker must have looked at him and known somebody, somewhere, would want to kiss him right there. His lips twitch.

"Can I help you?" he whispers.

You stammer a response that won't form and Morgan shoves you.

"Fucking move," she says.

His expression flickers.

"Sorry," you say, unsure of who you're talking to. "Sorry." You sound pathetic. A kicked puppy.

You keep your eyes on the floor until you're in the aisle, where a new set of nerves tries to swallow you whole.

—

Eddie knows exactly who you are, and he hates himself for it. He remembers you, the first you, shy and sweet and so excited, sitting pretty in Indianapolis International Airport with your guitar and your huge leaky headphones pounding death metal. While fame has broadened the amount of people who want to sleep with him, it hasn't changed his type, and you'd been a ringer, right there in the middle.

You'd been pretty and maybe you knew it, maybe you didn't, it didn't matter — what he liked most was the way your hands had moved as you spoke, hummingbird thrumming, an energy he'd seen in himself and every other musician desperate for a chance. He loved the passion and your eyelashes and the way you'd smiled as you'd waited for your plane, the two of you destined for New York, where you both seem to have looped back now. Only, he'd been cursed with remembering your every detail, and you either didn't remember him or don't care. Both sting, but he likes the second better. He'll take purposeful cruelty over the casual any day.

Like your thumb pressed to his cheek. The heat, and then your laugh.

"The fuck is this?" Gareth asks, leaning over the space between their two chairs.

Eddie looks up at you on stage and shrugs. While bands made up completely of women aren't new, they aren't as common as bands made up of men, obviously. He likes it, likes your sound, though it's not the kind of thing Corroded Coffin would ever play, and he won't join in on Gareth's doubt. Even if you are, like, a magnanimous shithead. You're good.

"She's hot," he furthers.

"Jesus, Gareth."

"What? She's fucking hot."

He has to squint to see you from this distance, and he can't truly make out many details. Gareth's not wrong. You're pretty, and out of the three members of the band you're the only one who actually looks like they're having a good time.

The lead singer trails around the stage pulling Blond Ambition poses. She can sing well, she has a strong voice that does whatever it is she bends it into, but her propensity to drop the guitar slung around her neck to grab at the microphone stand like it's escaping isn't helping anything.

The girl on drums is arguably given a pass, fighting to keep up with the pace, sweat sticking her thick hair to her neck in glossy spirals and her huge eyes set in concentration. Her messy lipstick sparkles under the stage lights, a party pink that pops against her brown skin.

He thinks you might be trying to cover up the lead singer's sloppy playing. You're good, sure, but it's not the easiest to tell when it's ragtag and rough like this. Only because he's watching does he notice your pick slipping between strings to the floor, and your willingness to strum with the sides of your fingertips. He likes that. The dedication is hot.

"I've never seen a girl on drums who didn't look like a guy," Gareth says. "She's killer. Think I can get her number?"

Eddie groans. "No, you fucking loser."

"I was just asking."

You bounce around and Eddie shifts in his seat, annoyed that he'd assumed you were the one Gareth was talking about.

He claps for you when the song is over and hates how you return to your seat during the break, back in your cute dress and beaming, practically dripping in deodorant and post-show adrenaline.

You apologise again as you step over him, and if there's one thing he doesn't want from you it's a sorry. Twice now you've spoken to him in the last week and twice you've made fun of him like some plaything under your thumb. Eddie isn't in the habit of being under anyone's anything. Apologies feel like salt in the wound, even though he knows you aren't saying sorry for the stuff that's pissing him off.

"What the fuck was that?" Lead girl asks you, sounding about as uptight as she looks as she climbs over your leg. "What were you doing?"

"Morgan, I don't know if you noticed, but you didn't play half of the song," you say defensively, the skirt of your gem-encrusted dress glancing off of his thigh. The gems are tiny, like pinprick stars in country night skies. They shine purple, green, orange.

Morgan holds her hand up for an attendant. When one approaches, she says, "Appletini," and nothing else, waving dismissively. She pulls at her stockings and doesn't notice the ladder she makes near the calf. "You're here to play what you're given."

"I did."

"And only that."

Your silence speaks volumes. What he'd thought to be an edge in Godless' sound may have been an improvisation, something Eddie personally applauds.

"Christ," Morgan says, "you're more trouble than you're worth. I hope you know that."

Eddie believes the sting of her barb to be in the presentation rather than the words themselves, though what she'd said is hardly kind. She looks away from you as she says it, like she's giving instruction far below her station. Factual, concise.

You barely wince. The lights dim, and he watches you contend with how you're feeling from the corner of his eye.

Eddie isn't evil. You may have gotten off on the wrong foot, and he's definitely holding his resentment at being forgotten tight to his chest, but nobody deserves to get shit on like that. You'd played well, you'd had a great time, and that should be commended. What's worse, your lack of a reaction tells him this is a common occurrence.

"I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you say.

Morgan waves you away like she had the waitress. You stand, and you say, "Excuse me," to every person you pass. Eddie put his hand on the back of his chair to follow you up toward the back of the room where the sign for the bathrooms glows green.

He sets his eyes back on the stage and begs himself to stay sitting. Corroded Coffin's nomination for best up and comer has already passed, a loss, and there's no reason he can't nip to the bathroom himself. There's also no reason he should go after you.

Fuck it, he thinks.

What could go wrong? What could go wrong, outside of the women's bathroom, where he has so obviously followed you, where he waits for you like some creeper trying to paw one off on you. He can't hear anything but the running tap. For a moment he thinks you haven't come here to collect yourself after all, you'd needed to pee, which makes his situation that much awkwarder.

Stuck between indecision, he leans against the wall between the women's and men's and digs for a cigarette. His pockets are empty, a precaution for exactly this moment. You can't smoke in the Prover Theatre, pissant.

You appear and blitz past him.

"Hey," he says before you can go too far, "d'you have a card?"

You turn on your heel. Hands already in your purse, you dig out an unopened box of cigarettes and offer it to him. You don't look as though you've been crying or anything like it, but you don't look him head on, so he keeps his theory.

Eddie peels the plastic off of your box and slaps the end against his chest for good measure.

"I don't think you can smoke in here," you say finally. Your voice is tired.

He raises his eyebrows and peers down into the box, pulling a cigarette free and sliding it between his lips. He holds out his hand for a lighter and you give it to him, already waiting with it between two fingers.

He lights it, inhales sharply, and passes you back your carton and lighter with a clouded, "Thanks."

"Yeah."

He's surprised when you don't move. You stand there and watch him smoke, whorls of pearly smoke dissecting the air between you, spider-webs over your pert face. You're waiting for what he doesn't know, so he'll give you something. He's nice.

"She's a piece of work."

You shift uneasily.

"I'm not the feds," he says, pulling the cig from his lips to talk unfettered.

"Forgive me for wondering if you have my best interests at heart."

He beams at you, really smiles, startled and enamoured by your sharp tongue. "Now why wouldn't I?"

You don't say anything, only pull at the neckline of your dress in what's likely a nervous habit. He gets a flash of the top of your chest and looks away. He thinks you're beautiful in a rather understated way, and he doesn't not want to see what it is you're showing, but he knows you don't actually mean to be so forward. He might be an asshole, but he's not like that.

It's quiet here in the foyer, like standing outside the doors of the movie theatre. You can hear the announcement of a new category, the roaring applause. The hallway and the bathrooms feel cordoned off from it in a strange way, an uncanny energy that has him on internal tenterhooks.

"You always let her treat you like that?"

"Like what?"

He steps toward you because the distance feels unnecessary. "Like that. Like you're a dog."

"Fuck you, I do not."

He pouts, the taste of smoke thick on his tongue.

"What would you know?" you ask.

"Besides hearing it all fucking night, nothing. You must like that shit."

Your eyes go wide. He hadn't meant to say it. There's a light behind them now, some life, something to cover up that shitty wounded despondency you'd been wearing. Your hands bunch in the soft skirt of your dress, shaking. He's touched a nerve.

"I must like it," you quote, strained.

"Woof. Do you do any tricks, or is it just the one?"

He doesn't mean for it to happen this way, he wants it on the record. He's a dick, he's a loser, whatever, he hadn't meant to argue but he will. And, you know, there may be a slight possibility that he isn't as sure in himself as he appears, and that there are nerves he keeps too close to the surface, too.

"You can teach me one of yours, if you want," you offer, voice tight with annoyance, "I'm thinking smug asshole picks easy target, but I'm open to other options."

That's funny. He takes another step toward you, another, your cigarette between his lips smouldering at the tip as he inhales through his smirk.

"Yeah, like what?" he asks, smoke licking your cheeks as he breathes out.

"How you get your head through the door might be a good place to start."

He waits for you to explain, knowing the silence will force you to fill it.

"You know, considering you're in the exact same place as me, only one of us performed tonight and it isn't the one acting like God's gift."

"You think they invited you to play because you're good?" he asks, feigning an earnest tone.

"I know exactly why they didn't ask you." You hike the strap of your purse higher up your shoulder, chin lifted in a snooty superiority that makes his heart pound. "Wannabe rookie who had too much smoke blown up his ass and thinks he's somebody. But you're not," you say. "You're a child. They've seen a hundred guys just like you in the Indiana circuit."

"You're a jumped up fucking groupie that got lucky," he says.

The light behind your eyes dims. He takes that last step, the step that's gonna put you shoe to shoe.

He should stop now, he would, but suddenly his anger is real, this isn't strictly fun anymore. He says what he knows is gonna hurt you.

"You're a stand-in, a temp who's already overstayed her welcome." He flicks the tower of ash between your heels. You follow it down, watch as it settles into the fibres of the carpeting. "You're a burnout waiting to happen."

Your breathing is loud in his ears. Slightly too fast.

"You don't know anything," you murmur.

"If it barks like a dog, and it heels like a dog," he says, pausing, words coming out thick and slow, "it's a dog."

Your face flares with hurt. You're gone before he can say anything else.

He's glad for it. Honestly, he's not sure what else he would've said, and later, he'll regret this, regret blowing up at you, regret following you out here and making you feel worse when he'd wanted the opposite. But tonight he's lit up from the inside out, your words a reverberation. A hundred guys just like you.

"Yeah, right," he says to himself, scoffing with a surety he doesn't feel.

—

Donington Park, England, August 1990

"I'd be a little more excited if I knew they weren't desperate this year," Jamison's saying, "that's all."

"They're hardly desperate."

"Last time they had KISS, Iron Maiden, Megadeth." Jamison sighs and falls back into the couch, muttering about the stale smell before continuing, "and this year, what do they have? Poison? Thunder? Who cares."

Eddie thinks he might actually have an opponent for biggest ego right now.

"You know they put Godless bigger on the poster," Jeff says with a bright smile.

"Can we not talk about them for one fucking day?" Eddie pleads.

He's a little disappointed at the lineup too, but that doesn't make this entire festival a bust. Monster of Rock may not be the most prestigious event they've ever attended but it's still impressive to be asked to play here, and this is only Corroded Coffin's third festival. Eddie's a smug bastard and even he knows Jamison sounds like a bitch. Besides that, he's so, so tired of talking about Godless.

"They finally stopped stringing that poor girl along. What was her name?" Jeff asks, clicking his fingers. "Eddie, you know, the one who said she didn't know you in the magazines?"

"What?" Eddie asked. "They cut her?"

Jamison sits up, eyes lit with mirth. "What's it matter to you, heartthrob?"

"It doesn't."

He's not being truthful. His bandmates are all unkind, and none extend the generosity of pretending they believe him.

"Nah, she's not cut, she's official. Writing credits on the new album and everything, 'cordin to Rolling Stone."

"You have it?" Eddie asks.

Jeff laughs at him but digs it out of his suitcase, brandishing it all rolled up.

"Shit better not be sticky," Eddie mutters under his breath.

"... Skip the interview with Kim Gordon."

Eddie gags and flicks through the pages until he finds the article on you, or rather the column.

"All female rock band Godless finally welcomed a new bass player this month after the departure of Millyanna Richardson in '89. Y/N L/N, 24, had been with the band for almost a year under a 'touring only' basis, though she performed live with remaining members Morgan Fletcher and Ananya Roy at the Prover Music Awards in early June. Fans have praised her talent and finesse, and are looking forward to her contributions to the band's next album expected this December. Hopefully she has thicker skin than her predecessor, who branded the band's inner politics as 'gruesome' and 'unlivable'."

There's a grainy photograph of you and your bandmates at the Prover Theatre overtop. You look exactly as you had that night, pretty and glitzy. He scowls at your printed face.

He can't fucking stand you, let it be known, and he thinks your frontman is the most spoilt brat he's ever seen. He hadn't seen the article, but he'd heard via word of mouth that you'd both had something to say about him. His approximation goes as follows:

Interviewer: …and you guys will be performing at the Monster of Rock music festival in England this August, right? Any faces you're excited to see?

Morgan: I think I'm better than everyone despite being in a mildly popular band that didn't qualify as hard rock until, like, three months ago, and I totally shit on our bass player for trying to make the change by the way, so I'm not excited to see anyone besides myself in the mirror.

Interviewer: How sophisticated and mature of you. And you, Y/N, are you excited to see anyone? Photos from the Prover Music Awards show you were sitting beside Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson, did you two hit it off?

Y/N: Who was that, the guitarist? I'm so sorry, I don't really remember getting a chance to talk to him, but I'm excited for the opportunity to meet more people in the scene right now and to get to play for a new audience. Also I suck and I want Eddie sooooo bad.

"I wish I were asleep." Gareth squints at the ceiling. "Asleep or back home."

"Miss mommy?" Jamison asks him.

"And Cindy."

"Oh, god," Eddie groans, "I don't want to hear it, seriously."

"She always had smooth legs, you know?" Gareth says. "Always shiny, soft. Fuck, I miss her legs. Girls on the road never shave their legs."

"Do you shave your legs?" Eddie asks.

"Fuck off, Teddy, you know you like it better when they shave."

"Do I know that?" Eddie asks.

He turns to Jamison, giving him a much-used 'make him stop' expression. Eyebrows raised, lips parted. When Jamison says nothing, and Gareth starts to talk about hair removal in other places, Eddie scrubs his eyes with both hands and stands up.

He's a guy. He has guy thoughts. Yeah, he thinks about girls, and their legs, and everything else, but he also thinks about them as actual people, something Gareth hasn't quite grasped yet.

"Remember why Cindy said she didn't wanna come with you?" Eddie asks.

"Because she was jealous of my success."

Eddie snorts and shrugs on his jacket where he'd left it thrown over the ratty couch. "Because she was going to beauty school," Eddie corrects. "I'm going out."

"We're miles away from anything interesting," Jeff says, magazine crinkling in his hands.

"I'm sure I'll find something," he says, and doesn't add that it should be easy.

What counts as interesting has taken a sharp turn since arriving in Donington. Which isn't to say it's boring, exactly, there's a rich culture Eddie isn't familiar with, and a fucking castle, but he's so used to loud dives and backroom parties that this has been a stark change. Wending had said to think of it like a vacation to get his head screwed on tight. Paula had said to think of it like a punishment, which had been funny at the time. Now he's wondering if she was serious.

He knows there'd been a convenience store somewhere down the road from the hotel. Or rather, the bed and breakfast, a strange cottage situation where the hosts keep an eye on you under the guise of making your dinner. Eddie's first world problems continue.

He could get weed, possibly. He doesn't know where from, but he knows someone who knows someone who must know someone, right?

Then he starts debating with himself about if he should smoke just to escape boredom. That sounds like a terrible idea, life isn't even bad right now, he's just hungry, and—

Eddie turns the corner, wet sidewalk dark as pitch under his feet, and spots the back of your head as you disappear inside of the convenience store. The corner shop, as Wending had informed. Eddie doesn't understand because it isn't on a corner, but he has bigger fish to fry. He considers waiting for you to leave. What are the chances you'll walk back this way? Pretty likely.

Don't be a bitch, he tells himself.

Light rain spots his neck as he hurries inside, the bell above the door ringing to announce his entrance. He's confused as soon as he looks up, because in front of him is an aisle, and to either side is an aisle, and he can't make out where the cashier is. He takes a tentative step in, eyes tracking muddy footprints down the way to the drinks fridge humming loudly at the back of the room.

Claustrophobic, he makes his way through the aisle and stops in front of the drinks. Because luck isn't ever his friend, you're standing toward the leftmost part, where a second fridge hums, filled to bursting with canned beer and litre bottles of cider. Eddie isn't sure it's really you until you turn to the left slightly and reach out for a colourful glass bottle. He should walk away. He doesn't like you, he has no business watching you, but there's something so sweet about it.

You in the humming chill, a coat pulled tightly around you, your chin hidden by the multicolour of a yarn scarf. You turn the bottle in your hand delicately and blink slow as you read the ingredients. Your hair is frizzy from the wind, flyaways surrounding your face in a little wave. His fingers twitch.

You keep the bottle and pick up a second, nails clinking against glass. Your movement pulls like you're moving through jello, and Eddie turns to the fridge in front of him hurriedly.

He can feel your gaze on the side of his face.

He picks up a couple of drinks without thinking, his face burning with heat. When he chances a glance your way, you've moved. He stares at the rainbow of drinks and the gaps where you've taken what you wanted.

He leaves some time between your departure and follows the way you must've gone down an aisle of more alcohol that's unrefrigerated and pet food, wondering how they organise here, and is confronted with you again at the end.

It's a snug building. You're blocking the way past where you're standing in front of the cashier's desk, a plexiglass shielded cube decked out in hanging sweets and cigarettes.

"Do you have Newports?" you ask mildly.

"Sorry."

"That's okay, uh, I'll just take a carton of whatever you think is best?"

The cashier retrieves a light blue box of cigarettes. "Lambert and Butler blues," he says. "Total, sixteen fifty six, and I'll need to see some ID."

You pull your passport from an already opened purse and offer it to him. While the cashier's checking it over, you peek at Eddie, and you don't smile but you don't not smile, a formal quirk of the lips.

"You're American?" the cashier asks.

"I'm visiting for the festival," you say.

Apparently having passed his test, the cashier hands your passport back and accepts your card.

"Are you paying together?" he asks, nodding at Eddie.

Eddie grins unconsciously, worse when you say quickly, "Oh, no, we're not together."

"Your brevity wounds me," Eddie says.

You snort with a similar geniality. "You don't need me to pay for you, do you? I heard you're rich now."

There has been an improvement in Eddie's finances lately. Your album breaking into the Billboard top 100 does that.

"I thought you didn't know who I was?"

"I thought that was kinder than what I really would've said."

He hates how your snark makes him smile. You're not looking at him, waiting for your change with your eyes forward as the cashier clicks a couple of buttons on the till.

"What were you really gonna say?"

The cashier hands over your change. You slip it into your purse, put your purse in the pocket of your coat, and slide your hand through the weak blue handles of your plastic bag.

"Thank you," you say sincerely. You take a step like you're going to leave, but you pause, and you look Eddie in the eye and say, "I would've said you were mean."

His jaw drops. You look hurt, and you leave with a discomforting frown.

He puts the drinks he's carrying down on the cashier's desk and says, "I'll be right back," before following you out.

You've pulled your hood up to defend against the thickening rain, walking with your face angled down. Eddie beats along the wet pathway.

"Hey! Hey, wait, wait a second, princess."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm so serious," he says.

He weaves in front of you and stops. You look cold as he feels with his red-tipped nose and stiff fingers, your arms drawn together over your chest. You look pretty and he's so sick of thinking it and not saying it.

"You're hot when you're mad."

You glare at him. "I wish I could say the same."

"Hey, hey, okay, we had a spat, but we got off on the wrong foot, you know?"

"I thought that too," you say.

He smiles. "See, we're– you're fucking with me. Nice."

You start laughing, edging around him. He moves in front and you shrug, stepping off of the sidewalk and into the leaf litter clogging the gutter.

"Don't be stupid," he says, hands held up in surrender "get back on the sidewalk." You keep walking. "Come on, don't get hit by a car. That would really put a damper on the festival."

You take a step further into the road, the kind that would make a collision unavoidable. He checks both ways for cars and sees none, knowing you're fucking with him and hating it anyway. The two of you are locked into a stand off, grey skies above you and wet ground underneath, your face partially occluded by your scarf and your hood and the dribbling rain. If he listens, he can hear the small sounds of the festival preparations a half a mile away, guitars hooked up up an insane array of speakers and the pounding of a beat through the floor.

You start walking again. He follows, treading backwards to keep your attention.

"Seriously, come on."

"No."

"No?" he asks.

"No. I don't have to listen to you."

"You're being stupid."

"Eddie, I truly, honestly, don't care."

"Sure." The sound of tires on the road draws his eye. A car appears behind you, approaching fast. "It's your funeral."

"What do you get out of this?"

He bites his top lip, shaking his head from one side to the other. "Out of what?"

"Tormenting me."

"Tormenting you? Sweetheart, we hardly know each other."

"Exactly!" You almost trip over your own shoes. "Exactly, you don't know me, but you thought you could say all those things–"

"You started it."

You laugh again and Eddie would be pissed but the car is still coming, headlights beaming through the light downpour. He huffs and grabs your wrist, tugging you up onto the sidewalk with his second hand on your waist. He doesn't mean to rag you about, feeling especially apologetic when your face knocks into his chin. The car spins close and validates his concern. You have enough sense to realise what's happened, watching over your shoulder as the car beeps and whizzes past. Still, you yank your arm out of his.

"Don't touch me," you say quietly.

He dips his head to force you to meet his eyes. "Next time I'll let you get hit by a car. Great idea."

"I wasn't going to get hit by the fucking car."

You're infuriating.

Infuriating, and yet he feels bad for pulling you around. He lowers his voice, softens his tone. "Sorry," he says. "I don't know why this happens, everytime I see you, I…"

You look intensely uncomfortable. "I have one of those faces, I guess." You shrug away from his reach. "Try to play well tomorrow? I don't want to go on to a dead crowd."

His mouth snaps closed. "If you need me to warm them up for you, just say that."

—

You go to watch Eddie's set because you're awful. You want it to suck. You want Corroded Coffin to bomb it and you want it to be his fault, anything to wipe that pretty smile off of his face, smother the electricity of his bouncing steps as he bounds from one side of the stage to the other. He's entranced by the crowd — it's hard not to be. Ananya had told you on the plane that UK festival audiences are a different kind of enthusiastic, eager and loud, and it's obvious now that she was right, and that Corroded Coffin had more than a few loyalists in the sea of people.

The barrier bends under the force of it, thousands of warm bodies throwing themselves against one another despite the terrible weather, mud to the shins and sliding. You've never seen so many people happy to be covered in dirt.

Neither Morgan nor Ananya had wanted to join you so you stick to the shadows with your lanyard pass. You refuse to think about why you've dressed the way you have, a black, stiff corset type top to cinch your chest, exposing the soft hills of your breasts, and the flare pants Morgan had insisted make your thighs acceptable. You're bedecked in pretty jewellery and your hair looks perfect, and it's all for your show, you swear, all for your set straight after his.

Eddie's dripping with sweat and rain at this point, darker curls wet and slick and sweet around his face. His brows are furrowed like he's in pain, and his thumb has split on the strings, blood like cherry juice running down the body of his guitar, a Warlock NJ Series electric with a red and black tortoise shell design. It shines like mother-of-pearl.

You're impressed by him, and worse, there's a heat stirring in your abdomen you despise. He's attractive, you've always thought him pretty, but on stage he's something else entirely. The passion transforms him, makes him a different person. No trace of agitating smugness about him.

And he's good. You're not a critic, an expert, and your opinion hardly matters, but if he's this good now you'd love to see him at Hammet's age, at Hanneman's. He could be one of the greats.

You're riddled with jealousy. Bass and rhythm guitar are not the same, and they're comparable in some ways, incomparable in others, but you know you're not like he is. You want to be the next Entwistle, the next Ian Hill, but practising You've Got Another Thing Comin' until your fingers bleed is never going to give you what Eddie plainly has.

You hide your bandaid covered fingers in your back pockets and shake your head. You can pinpoint the moment Eddie notices you on the side stage despite the small audience they've attained. His neck snaps to the side, and his eyes bore into yours for a split-second.

You could pretend you aren't here. If he ever calls you out on it, you could lie. You want me so bad you're seeing me places, Munson.

You don't do that.

You wave.

You've never been the prettiest girl. You know you aren't model material, people aren't shy about letting you know that, and so, you're practised in the art of quiet flirtation. Your wrist straight, you wiggle your fingers sweetly, a face of fresh make up and your sweetest smile, like he's a guy across the bar and you're trying to get a ride in his passenger seat.

For a split-second you adore him. It's the meanest thing you can do.

You aren't expecting him to fuck up. His hand slips down the neck and that's it, one missed second of sound. He throws himself back into it and doesn't look your way again, a storm of emotions clouding his handsome face.

Not what you'd meant to do, and yet. There's a cruel satisfaction in knowing you'd had any sort of power over him.

There's a ten minute gap between sets, twenty because of the shitty weather. Morgan and Ananya are nowhere to be seen as Corroded Coffin pour off of the stage and down the short stairwell where you're waiting, picking at your clear nail polish absentminded. You don't look up, and the resulting quiet makes you think they've all left.

A wooden board creaks.

You look up.

"Hey, you–"

Eddie takes your shoulder into his warm, big hand and pushes you back. You wobble and rush to correct your posture, hand clamping around the crook of his elbow. Even though he's soaked through, wet to the skin, his hand is a blistering heat.

Your shoulders collide with the wall under the stairwell. It's a snug fit, dark and out of view.

"What gives?" you seethe, pushing at his chest.

"You fucking–" Eddie tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear, and his hand stays at that height, hovering between you. "What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?"

"You want to mess with me, is that it?"

His hand takes to your face, index finger following the line of your cheek, his thumb along your jaw. He isn't kind. He isn't cruel. He's touching you, just touching you, and your mouth is bone dry at the sensation, the stuttering beat of your heart.

"I don't want to do anything to you, Munson."

"We both know that's not true." You've never heard his voice like this. It's scratchy– pleading. It's a desperation.

He's breathing hard. Your proximity means you feel each one as it comes, heat fanning over your lips. You look to his, find them parted, the barest hint of pearly teeth between pink dewy skin. They look soft.

You lift your chin.

I dare you.

His hand slides down. He presses his thumb into your bottom lip and inclines his head. You close your eyes, fine stands of his hair drawing lines of wetness against your face as he boxes you in.

"Are you going to–"

"Shut up," he says, crushing his lips to yours.

It his nose you feel more than anything, the force of it as he moves in, bridge sliding down your own. His hands, and how they tighten, fisted in the slope of your shoulder and clutching at the underside of your jaw like you might slip away. His touch brings you in, his hips force you back, wedging your spine tight to the panelled wall behind you.

You let him kiss you, let his lips work over yours, let him take what it is he wants. Your fingers slide softly up the chilled leather of his jacket, coveting the wet mess of his hair. You weave your fingers into it, their tips pressed to his roots, and pull him away.

You steal the gap between you and try to take control. You don't know how to kiss like he is, you don't know where all that meanness comes from. You force his hand from your face and nip at his bottom lip, imprecise, stammering pecks that reveal too much.

Eddie inhales hard, pulls the breath from your mouth.

"Don't play games," he says.

He presses a firm, hard kiss all lopsided into your lips and pulls away, yanking your hand from his hair and setting it against the line of his waist.

"You like games," you argue.

He tilts your head to one side a millimetre at a time, tilting his own to follow you. A teasing light burns behind his eyes, a playful flare of his lashes that worries and excites at once.

His thumb haunts the column of your throat, pressing, releasing, pressing again. Never enough to hurt.

"Stay still."

You stay still. You aren't expecting him to weave the other way, the hot and unapologetic scratch of his teeth against your pulse. You laugh at the feeling, find it gets all clogged up when he starts to bite. The hand that isn't anchoring your head roams down your shoulder, your back, falling into the small of it as though it were made to be there. His fingers spread and pull and your pelvis pushes hard into his own.

"Is that a–" You cough on your murmuring, chastened by his thumb outside your windpipe. "S'that a micronta quartz in your pocket, or are you just," —you hiss as his hickeying turns brutal, hand pawing ar his waist uselessly— "happy– Happy to see me?"

Your shuddering makes him smile. He lets your bruised skin slip from between his lips only to scandalise you further, kissing and nipping, licking a humiliating stretch until he's under your ear, speaking into it.

"I'm never happy to see you," he murmurs, hand turned, the back of his index knuckle stroking a tender back and forth. His forehead kisses your temple. "You should know that by now."

A picture of composure but you know what you feel. You roll your hips to revel in his subtle groan.

"You want me to mark up the other side?" he asks.

His question sounds so genuine, you almost say yes. He laughs at your silence and kisses wherever he can reach, crescent moons, spit-damp and branding.

He pauses to speak into the corner of your mouth. "Mess me up again during a set and I won't be this nice."

"You're not nice," you say, lashes skimming the skin under your brows as he stands at full height, widening the gap between you to a safe distance again.

"Exactly…" Eddie squeezes your cheek until it aches. His eyes are unreadable. "Have a good set, sweetheart."

Unreadable turns smug. He pats your panging cheek, gaze dancing over the sore stretch of your neck, and turns without a second glance.

You press the heel of your palm to the cold wall behind you and blink. Once. Twice. In that moment you hate him more than you've ever hated him, hate him like you've never hated anyone, because his retreating figure is unaffected, and you're dizzy with the lingering press of his lips.

You have to hand it to him. He's good at the game.

You'll have to be better.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

I wrote the bulk of this really quickly so please forgive any major errors I missed during editing, I’ll go back again in future and make more corrections! Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and if you did please consider reblogging or telling me what you thought, I promise it makes a big difference <3 I was super nervous about this one and I still am lol

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omegalomania · 1 year

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the full apple music interview with zane lowe is out! we got snippets of it when love from the other side dropped, but they finally rolled out the full thing. here are some highlights that stood out to me :)

patrick describes pete's lyrics as what gets him out of bed in the morning. if pete doesn't send him lyrics, he doesn't write a song.

andy and pete used to draw fake snake tattoos on each other using magic markers as kids omg?

so evidently patrick was the one who got covid during hella mega tour. and he hated it and he was miserable and that's when he called neal avron about the new record lmao

patrick says that joe was hesitant at first and he was the one who said that for this record he wanted to make something that they could all savor and spend time on and patrick was immediately on board with that

pete says patrick's job is to interpret him because pete calls his mentality a "little bit off" but patrick is capable of understanding him and translating it

patrick describes his and pete's creative relationship as "twin speak." it's not linear and it's like living in his brain a little bit. he calls it the "weirdest thing i've ever seen" when pete can just Tell that some words that patrick adjusted weren't ones he wrote despite not remembering writing them. patrick says he's gotten better at connective tissue and knowing how pete would say things

pete: back in the day patrick was like, "what's the difference between cry and weep i will KILL YOU. THEY'RE THE SAME THING. I'M GONNA KILL YOU RIGHT NOW."

zane says patrick's vocals are next level for this album. pete agrees that he kills it on this album and said he never would've expected that voice coming from him when they first met. zane says patrick could sing a recipe and it would be good. he then passes patrick a recipe and patrick. sings it???

patrick: i'm not gonna belt it. (starts belting) NINE INCH PIE PLATE ROLLING PIN

patrick says that pete doesn't mean to have rhythm to his words but there's a rhythm to them all the same and patrick can find this syncopation in his words and thinks it's amazing

more talking about patrick and pete's Magical Mystical Transcendent Soul Bond. patrick says "if we were one guy, we'd be an INCREDIBLE DUDE"

patrick and pete say that interviews with all four of them are hard because it's chaos and everyone's talking at once but it all makes perfect sense to them and no one else. zane says that sounds like fun flkjdfd [i agree please do this more it's a joy]

pete says joe really stepped up and wrote a lot for this record!

patrick: "joe is kind of a conundrum because he's this really talented...he's a brilliant writer, a brilliant player, but pete and i became the "team" and it wasn't really a plan, but that's just kind of how it happened. [brief tangent about the hiatus] we come back from the thing and joe is this fully-formed writer with a very distinct - he has one of the most distinctive writing voices. when i hear his parts, when i hear his ideas, i could pick them out of a crowd. like i know the way joe writes, and it's VERY joe." part of the process with post-hiatus was integrating him into the writing process more.

discussing the hiatus and fame and pete says his life kind of "blew up" and took it pretty hard. apparently during production for folie paparazzi actually broke down the gate to neal avron's house

patrick goes on a big tangent about how bad things got during the height of pete's fame. "part of my role is to tell his story. i'm a composer. that's what i like to do. i work on movies, i work on shows, and i work on pete. pete has a story that needs music, and if he's removed from himself, if he's not even able to access himself because he's behind all of this stuff, i don't have a story! so not only did i not have my buddy, which was heartbreaking in its own way, but then i also don't have a purpose as an artist."

patrick says that andy is always ready to play but when you get him happy to play, it's another level

"and trohman, there were these moments where he...he got so excited."

patrick describes writing what a time to be alive as wanting to write the saddest, most desperate song you could hear at a wedding. pete bursts into laughter and calls it "so twisted"

talking about other endeavors outside the band - patrick talks about composing and said joe's been super busy with his book and writing for tv and because there are so many deadlines for stuff like that, it's what hammered home to him that fall out boy needs to not be that. "there's something special about this that can't be...this has to be passionate and art."

discussing how scared patrick was of his own voice while the band took off. patrick was really scared of the song saturday at first because there are some really exposed vocal moments. he describes saturday as a song where everyone in the band lets each other go for it.

zane calls fall out boy the "emo blueprint" and says they were unapologetic in being emotional. patrick immediately says, "that was pete. i don't think we could've done that without him." he and joe were basically kids and patrick was too anxious to talk on stage.

zane says, "i remember interviewing you in the early days and i felt like every time i asked you a question i was bullying you." pete IMMEDIATELY loses his shit.

"in another life where i didn't have a pete...cause saturday, i did write most of that by myself...so there's a world where that song exists without the band. there's no world where i sing it in front of people without pete."

pete says every night before they put out a new song he calls patrick up and gets really scared and wants to back out and patrick talks him down every time

they talk about how scary it was when arm's race released and performing it at the amas. patrick starts laughing rly hard as they get into how there were giant crickets on stage and the crowd was just stone-faced and utterly nonresponsive and their stage manager was utterly panicked

towards the end patrick really loosens up and starts swearing more dlkfjdfd

#fall out boy #*making poasts #they kept being SO SWEET ABOUT EACH OTHER LIKE. I CANT HANDLE IT #patrick and pete are like lets tell everybody about our magical soulbond for 1 hour straight. thanks guys.

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jinnie-ret · 2 months

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hellevator

stray kids x ninth member male!reader

genre: angst, fluff

content warnings: implied anxiety, implied disassociating

word count: 2.1k

summary: he's going through voice changes in their debut era and fans are already sending in hate

Requested: anon!

This is my first male!reader fic so please be kind, I hope you enjoy! <3

1K FOLLOWERS PLAYLIST 💚🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST

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He was so excited to finally be a part of something, not that he had been training for long. But when Bang Chan told him he saw potential in him, despite their 6 year age gap, and recognised how well he got on with the other members, he was quickly added onto the line up for Stray Kids.

During the survival show, Y/N was babied, of course he was, the maknae in the upcoming JYP boy group. Fans of the show fauned over his fluffy black hair and the oversized hoodies he'd wear, making him look smaller. It was similar to how Jeongin was babied too, the two of them being the youngest and seen to have that sweet, innocent air around them. Plus, for Y/N's case, his voice hadn't broken yet at the age of 14, so that fed more into how he was perceived by fans.

However, it was not long after the group had finally debuted that a more mature, deeper voice had overcome him. Of course, not without the struggles of getting used to it. Originally singing the chorus of District 9 wasn't difficult, in fact it was easy. His gorgeous, husky tone was unique yet when he hit those high notes his voice was instantly recognisable. Now, he had to deal with voice cracks, and the rapidly depleting self-esteem that came along with it. This is what he trained to do after all.

"You're getting stressed out. We need to practice getting your voice in a position where it can hit those high notes again. It's not going to help if you're standing there thinking you can't do it," the vocal teacher sighed, putting down her sheets of the lyrics Y/N had been singing.

She was firm, yes, but she was being kind about the situation too. She has coached many that had gone through the same thing as Y/N, and all she wanted to do was to see him succeed, but he couldn't see things through her eyes, that was far too big of a mountain to climb for him. A treacherous journey to realising not everything is one dimensional.

Y/N could only focus on those last four words. 'You can't do it'. And he hated the way that everything suddenly felt hot, and how his throat itched. How his neck itched. He started subconsciously scratching lightly at his neck, feeling the stress flood through his body. He scratched away at the thing he wanted to change most, knowing he couldn't turn back time and have things stay the way they were.

All the comments he had read, all the whispers he had heard, circulating in his brain, like an endless loop of vicious words to bring him down. He would be the reason Stray Kids would fail, they had said. He wasn't good enough, they had said. It all came from jealous trainees that were bitter they didn't get to debut instead of him. The only failure apparent in this situation was Y/N realising that.

"I need some air," Y/N barely managed to speak as he rushed out of the small practice room, tugging at the strings of his hoodie and making his way outside.

Fresh air.

Just breathe, Y/N.

And he managed to do so, not without his mind taking him to another place as he stared up at the JYP sign on the building. Was he meant to be here? Did he deserve to be here when his talents were no longer there? Y/N just couldn't see it the same way anymore, he couldn't see himself the same way anymore when the thing he had been praised for so deeply had changed. Even the people who had supported him before had changed their opinions, because his growth had shattered the image they had of him.

Y/N was unaware of the familiar presence beside him, one that had playfully called out his name before realising something was wrong. He was gently guided back into the building, and swiftly surrounded by the warmth of the 3RACHA studio.

"Hyungs! I found Y/N but he's not talking to me," Jisung's voice quivered as he himself was now feeling worried about his dongsaeng.

Changbin took Jisung aside, hushing him and reassuring him that he did the right thing, whilst Chan took it upon himself to understand what was happening to his youngest brother.

"Hey, hey, you're ok, come on, look at me," Chan spoke quietly, yet he managed to break through Y/N's mind as the younger looked around the studio.

"I shouldn't even be here," Y/N shook his head, voice monotonous. Just being there upset him further, yet he still fought against everything within him to show that side.

"What do you mean? This is our studio of course you're allowed in here, I mean, I know Channie likes his own space sometimes but this is different," Changbin moved to stand in front of Y/N too, having successfully calming Han, "hey, no no no don't float away again, I need you to listen," Changbin forced Y/N to sit down in the sofa. Han automatically wrapped his arms around the younger, wanting to do his best to show he was there for his fellow member.

"What's going on Y/N? Your vocal teacher said you just ran out of the building. She was waiting another 45 minutes until Seungmin turned up for his lesson because she couldn't find you," Chan sighed as he sat down in his chair, opposite the distressed boy.

"I bet Seungmin was much better than me," Y/N mumbled, but even with that, throat thick in emotion, his voice cracked yet again. Flustered that it had happened yet again, Y/N's fist came down against his own leg, huffing in frustration.

"Yah yah, don't do that!" Han frowned, pulling Y/N's arms away from him.

"I'm just so frustrated!" Y/N spoke through gritted teeth, looking up at the ceiling to keep his tears at bay.

"About what?" Changbin prompted Y/N further but he just stayed quiet.

"You need to tell us ok, we're your hyungs, we want to know what's going on, we need to know," Chan moved closer, resting his hand on Y/N's knee.

"My stupid voice," Y/N whispered, embarrassed to admit it.

"What?"

"Huh?"

"What about it?"

"Ever since it's broken, you know, gotten deeper, I just sound stupid when I try singing, it's embarrassing, I mean, it makes sense when they say I shouldn't even be in the group anymore, I-" Y/N opened the gates to his mind as his mini ramble began and was quickly cut off.

"Who said that..." Changbin frowned deeply.

"Stays, other trainees," Y/N threw his hands up in the air, just done with the whole situation.

"Trainees are saying it too?!" Han gasped, looking at Chan and Changbin worriedly, a hint of malice in his eyes as he thought about all of those around them that still acted like their friends.

"Y/N they're just jealous, you can't listen to what they say," Chan began, sighing once more as he ran his fingers through his hair, somewhat at a loss of how to reassure Y/N anymore.

"Easier said than done. Why did you even have me join this group when, when... when I was just going to make us fail!" Y/N exploded, pushing himself up from the sofa and out of Han's arms, away from Changbin's concerned glances and especially away from Chan's words which went in one ear and out the other straight away.

It wasn't long until he found what he thought was an empty practice room, not noticing the bags of his other hyungs that were for once tucked away neatly in the corner of the room. He found solace in the emptiness and allowed himself to collapse to his knees, breaking down into tears of frustration, sadness and all the other emotions he kept pent up.

The rest of Stray Kids returned from a small snack break at the vending machine, all going together of course, you wouldn't find one Stray Kid without another, even this early on in their time of being together.

"Hey hey hey, aegi, what's going on? Omo..." Lee Know gasped as he saw the baby of the group shaking and sobbing. He ran up to Y/N and wrapped his arms around him, the other members astonished until 3RACHA ran in and finally found Y/N after hearing the commotion.

They began to explain what happened to Hyunjin, Seungmin and Jeongin whilst Felix sat down in front of Y/N to help calm him down, brushing his hair out of his face and rubbing his leg soothingly. He tried his best to listen to Y/N at first but due to his growing knowledge of Korean not being up to par with Y/N's incoherent sobs, it was easier to stick to physical affection. You could say Y/N was in a Lee sandwich, the best place he could be right now.

"Can't... Shouldn't..." Y/N sobs soon calmed down and the rest of his members gathered around him in a semicircle, Minho still hugging him from behind. Yes, he could come across as cold and brash sometimes, but no one could tell you just how soft Minho really was apart from his members. They knew him the best.

"Y/Nnie... please you have to listen to us, you're in this group for a reason," Hyunjin patted his knee from beside him.

"T-they didn't say anything about Jeongin's voice when his broke!" Y/N exclaimed, pain clearly still there, tired of all the judgement he had been receiving. He wasn't able to listen to his hyungs right now.

And the boys go quiet not knowing what to say back to Y/N, they were sure he didn't mean to offend Jeongin but it didn't stop Seungmin from patting his shoulder in support.

"Not, not, oh gosh not that I wanted Jeonginnie hyung to get hate I'd never want that for my hyungs I just..." Y/N put his face into his hands, feeling bad as if he has indirectly insulted his hyung, just because he was feeling hurt. From behind him, Minho hugged him tighter, whispering in his ear to try and gain his attention.

"It's ok, I know you didn't mean it like that," Jeongin smiles from across him, and Y/N could tell it was a genuine one.

"Look, our vocal teacher said something to me earlier about what was going on, she was worried about you, she thought she said something wrong," Seungmin trailed off, trying to get to the bottom of the matter.

"No she was actually really nice about it, it was just too much of a reality check and then my mind just took control and... Ugh I don't even know," Y/N came to a realisation that his vocal teacher wasn't being rude to him and it was all these overwhelming feelings that had built up and caught him out.

"Just take a moment, yeah, and think, would I have added you to this group if I didn't think you had the talent, had the potential," Chan rose an eyebrow, firmly talking to Y/N to make sure he understood what he was saying.

"Or his personality, personality is important too," Felix piped up, not wanting Y/N to feel like his worth was only reduced down to one thing.

"Of course it is, but that isn't what this is about right now, answer me, Y/N," Chan nodded to Felix before looking back at his upset member.

"N-no..." Y/N stuttered, realising the depth of what his leader was saying.

"Good. We can see how good you are. The only reason fans are getting annoyed is because it's a change they haven't adjusted to yet. Just like you're adjusting to this change too. Now, they shouldn't be sending in hate, so please, I will do everything it takes for you to not listen to it anymore, ok?" Chan promised Y/N, sitting in front of him and making sure he got that one answer he needed.

"O-ok, I-i understand now, thanks hyung, I-i love you all," Y/N felt the stress leave him, finally able to understand things from a different perspective.

"Aww he said he loves us!" Minho suddenly picks up Y/N and spins him around, causing the younger boy to squeal.

"I wish I had a camera!" Seungmin laughed along.

"I need to remember this forever," Jeongin and Han fooled around, widening their eyes and pretending to screenshot this happy cute moment into their brains.

It was definitely a moment that Y/N would be teased about in the future, being exposed for his true feelings for his hyungs when normally he'd be quiet about what he thought about in the normal way. It was just a good thing they got in his head this time, because now they had a happy memory to think about instead.

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tagged: @skz-streamer @kiraisastay @hannahhbahng @kpopmenace143 @sakufilms @arloo00 @dunno-wut-to-do @splat00z @cheesemonky @his-angell @turtledove824 @2minstan @royal-shinigami @yangbbokari @skzoologist @crabrangoongirl25 @atinyniki @writingforstraykids @minholing @lilmisssona @astraysimp @lixie-phoria

#skz #stray kids #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz fluff #skz angst #straykids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids imagines #skz fic #straykids ninth member #skz ninth member #stray kids ninth #ninth member #stray kids ninth member #male reader #skz male reader #stray kids male reader

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sturn3 · 12 days

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matt's new girlfriend was obsessed with you.

she couldn't help but stalk your social media. she constantly thought about you. like she was in love.

she knows your star sign, your blood type , she's seen all your movies. she knows he loved you. and for that, she can't help but be butthurt.

every time she'd be in his bed, all she could think about was how you were there. it was driving her insane. how you used to sleep on her side of his bed. she could feel your presence, and it constantly haunted her.

she remembers every detail that matt has told her about you. sometimes things she's asked herself, sometimes things she'd hear him talk about in his sleep, or things that he's let his drunk self slur out.

everytime she'd look in the mirror she couldn't help but compare. your lips, your hips and how she wasn't you ,overall.

other times she'd run into you at parties, the life of every fucking party. she observed the way he looked at you. her insides screaming how she should run far away for her own good.

you were a talented, well known actor, you were good with kids and everytime someone would bring her up, you couldn't help but speak kindly about her. how could she hate you ?

months into her relationship with matt ,she realized that maybe he does love her. maybe she was just crazy. but she couldn't help but feel that every time he called her by her name ,he mistook it for yours.

both you and matt have moved on. you don't even talk. but she can't help it she's got issues.

" i'm so obsessed with your ex."

were you friends with his friends? does nick call you to tell you all the new gossip and talk shit about everyone you've ever known? does chris annoy you by rapping his favorite rap lyrics in your face or constantly taking sips of your beverage ?

are you good in bed? she couldn't help but wonder when he was deep balls inside her. when she'd be switching up positions. when she'd be giving him head. when he'd be giving her head. she wondered if he ever compared you two, too.

does he think about you??

are you easy-going? never controlling?

well-traveled? well-read? God ,you make her so upset.

this is based on olivia's "obsessed" cause i love her and that song so much !! 💋💋

#Spotify #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #nick sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #chris sturniolo x reader

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whorediaries-09 · 2 months

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shameless;

pairing- rockstar!sirius black x reader warning(s)- substances, 18+ content, hurt/comfort. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- absolutely hate this one ❗

masterlist of 'the seven lives;' series

the slut club

now that you have me, do you want me still?

your throat was raw from shouting the lyrics of the songs you’d penned on a drunk night. but as the line between pretence and reality ended, his kisses became history, hidden behind cigarettes or the occasional puff of weed that painted your skin backstage. his fingers wrapped around your throat, you turned putty into his hold, craving him carnally. the weariness engulfed both of your bodies; the feelings consumed the both of you. his touch was like electricity shooting through every inch of your body as he delicately stripped away every piece of clothing on your skin that restricted him to touch your skin. it always began like this, in the cold echo substances and weariness.

his hands wrapped around your throat, pushing his tongue deeper into your mouth as he ravaged you. he swallowed your moans and whimpers, wrapping your legs around his waist. the beads on his jeans which resembled a star poked the skin of your bare thighs. his fingers dug into your waist as he cradled you, pushing you against the cold metal of your vanity trailer. your fingers numb and shaky, the buttons on his sheer black vest popped open. his lips attached onto your neck, his sharp canine finding home onto the warmth of the blood that ran through your veins.

the pants fell on the floor, the metal of his ridiculous thick belt falling with a muffled clank on the soft carpet. his fingers gathered your arousal against his rough padded fingers, causing a soft moan from your lips. he pushed his fingers into your mouth, letting your taste melt into your taste buds.

‘you’re so pretty stargirl, with my fingers down your throat like that,’ he gasped, pushing himself into you. you pulled him closer at the nickname, as he slowly thrusted into you.

you hated it. you hated the fact that even though it was supposed to be just a public stunt, to prevent his fangirls or groupies, to jump on his bones every time he took a step outside. you hated the fact the public stunt continued into the haze of privacy, leaving you breathless with lip bruising kisses and marks on your neck you had to feed the paparazzi. you hated the fact your heart echoed into deep faltering emotions every second when he was with you, every time he kissed you, every time he felt you. you hated the fact that you were nothing but a pawn in the game for his security.

you had to step out to buy groceries in his jacket. again, a ploy, for flashes or clicks of cameras. it was as if you could feel his hands on your body. the leather jacket around your body smelled like worn leather and parchment, infused with the scent of his musk cologne and cigarettes. you could hear the nicknames that elicited out his throat as he rammed into you, pinning you down to the hard mattress in your trailer. and even though you were drunk, high and hot, the image of his melting eye makeup and his touches melted into you.

sure enough, it ended up on a celeb gossip instagram page. it wasn’t a rumour, it was true- an eye candy for people to feed on. the self-made artist dating a nepo baby who ran away from the clutches of his abusive parents. a classic cliched move that worked every time.

curious, you scrolled through the comments. while most of them were positive, beaming or gushing about the relationship, and how the playboy rockstar had finally settled down for somebody who’d control him, some were…rather rude. none of them about sirius, but you. calling you unimaginable slurs, pathetic inhumane words. it was disgusting, how they narrowed you down to someone based on who you dated, and not your talent. when he was the one with successful parents in the industry, the one who had his name signed with any record in the book even before he was born.

it was vile, cruel, and pathetic. walking into the room of your hotel. you threw the packet of groceries on the floor. you could feel a lump form in your throat, tears threatening to spill from your waterline. a few fruits rolled on the cold ceramic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. your heart thumped against your ribcage.

a seemingly indistinguishable heat spread in your chest as you broke down, sliding down on the cold wall. you clutched your knees to your chest, resting your head on them as you cried, letting out the fury and melancholy.

did it matter to him? the name calling, the slurs you got called by random people on the internet who didn’t know how much hard work you put into your career? did he care? or were you truly just a pawn in the game?

sirius could feel it. that something was wrong. he could feel it when you shuddered under his touch. he could feel it when you skin was unusually cold under his lips. he could feel it when your heart thumped irregularly fast as his touch wandered over your waist. he knew something was wrong.

but you had your strong suite on as you continued to sing, arching your hips against his crotch as you did so. he turned you around, dipping you then curling an arm on your back. he tried to meet your eyes as he sang his part of the song, but you were determined to not meet his gaze. it made him worry. had he done something?

he turned you around again, carefully missing the step where you had to kiss his neck while he sang. he didn’t want you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. he wrapped his arms around your chest, just below your breasts, breathing onto your neck as you ended the song with the final lyrics. it was last song, that got the crowd clapping and cheering.

bidding them goodbye, the band went off stage with a sirius reeling into his thoughts. he wondered whether the things between the both of you got complicated because of the fake dating agreement. he knew it was an asshole move, just because he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth, just because he couldn’t admit his feelings about you, he held you hostage, telling you he was tired of his random fangirls that jumped on his bones every time he let him have a piece of himself. he held you for himself, just so you he could love you silently. it wasn’t fair to you, because you deserved the love without thinking it was feigned or a ploy. but was troubled.

he hated to hurt you and tell you he was yours. but he did it anyway.

he found you in the vanity van, wiping off your makeup. it wasn’t a part of your usual routine. usually, you’d smoke rolls of weed or take pictures yourself post-concert. sometimes his lips and touch carried you backstage. but never this. for the first time in the night, you locked your eyes with his. through your mirror.

he was wearing the costume he wore on the stage. several earrings hanging of his ears, silver chains intertwined with each other which peeked through the half buttoned up sheer shirt. the tattoos were inked all over his body. the boot flared jeans hung low on his narrow waist. his combat boots hid beneath the denim.

‘hi stargirl,’ he said. his voice was heavy and raw.

‘drink some fucking water,’ you ordered. even though you hated how he made you feel at the moment, you couldn’t help but care for him. you watched as he took the water bottle from your dresser, gulping it down.

‘hi, stargirl,’ he said again, now much closer to you. his eyes were unusually dark and you wondered whether that was the play of the lights.

‘what are you here for? speak up, black,’

‘i can’t come and check up on my girlfriend?’ he countered. while you tried to keep your voice playful and chill, he caught up on the bitterness of your voice. neither did he miss the way you furiously tightened the hold on the tissue in your hand.

‘right. listen black, you’re not getting another fuck play from me. the pda we do is for the public eye only,’ you said, a sternness in your voice.

‘i’m not here for another fuck- what the heck do you mean?’ he asked, nearing you. you tore your eyes away from him as his hot breath fanned over your neck. he turned your chair around, sitting on his knees. he took your hands into his.

‘have I done something?’ he asked, trying to meet your eyes. your gaze burned through the metal wall of the van. he could feel the heat radiate off you as he watched your expression soften, your stony barrier melt. in a cruel haze, you elicited out a cry that made his heart bruise. but it was good, he thought. it meant you were letting him in, communicating your thoughts and feelings with him.

‘yes, you fucking have! you’ve bound me to something i- i- never wanted to do. i just agreed to it because i fucking love you. because you fucking mean so much to me, but you- you’re just using me as a pawn to protect yourself. the world isn’t as easy for me as it is for you! all people have done is now burden me into a slut that has no other personality than her playboy rockstar boyfriend. all of this just to fucking protect you. all of this because i’m stupid, because i love you. fuck you sirius!’ you sobbed.

‘i- i’m sorry.’ he whispered as you sobbed, letting the tears soak into his pale skin.

‘a sorry? a fucking sorry fixes shit up?’

‘i didn’t want this for you. i- i love you. i did this just to bind you to me. it was an asshole, selfish move, but i cannot string words to express my love for you.’

you sniffled, setting your forehead on his. your stomach churned as the realization crept onto you. the tension grew thicker and thicker, the inches between you grew smaller and smaller and the heart beats palpitated faster and faster. neither of you said anything, but it was as if your souls spoke to each other.

‘you can’t love me,’ you finally spoke. he squeezed your hand.

‘i do. you can’t decide or judge how i feel about you,’ you took in a long breath.

‘you’re not playing with me right now, are you?’

‘no.’ he confirmed, his voice strong and confident. breathing heavy, you lowered your nose to touch with is.

‘then show me. show me that you’ll want me when you’ll have me. show me you’ll me screaming out your lungs for me. show me you’ll need me more than you want to.’

‘anything for you, my stargirl,’

the emotions were naked. in a shameless haze when you spread apart you legs for him, he ripped apart your tights. in the raw spiral of love and lust, he trailed his fingers on your bare thighs. the cold metal of his rings contrasted against your warm skin. you felt yourself getting needy by every second, and for the first time, you weren’t afraid to face his need more than you wanted to. for the first time, you weren’t afraid to live your dreams.

for the first time, you were loving someone that was yours.

he pressed his tongue onto your clit, his tongue piercing cold on your warm folds. delving two fingers into you, he sucked on your clit. he drew out an unholy moan, raw from the depths of your throat, as you convulsed around his fingers. rubbing his calloused, rough fingers on your clit, you felt him ravage into you like a starved man. his stubble rubbed against your inner thighs, scratching them raw. you wrapped your legs around his head, bringing your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. he lapped up on you like a dog. your lungs screamed out for him as you felt yourself clench around his curling fingers, your orgasm coiling in your stomach. you felt it explode out of your body and paint his tongue when his voice melted into your eardrums.

‘cum for me, stargirl,’

the stars were white behind your irises, the kisses on your thighs hot and naked. he trailed his lips onto your shaking thighs, promising you his kisses won’t be history ever again.

***************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @alexaduke (if you want to be tagged please reply under this post!)

#harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #marauders #sirius black #sirius x reader #sirius black smut #the marauders #sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #marauders era #sirius black thoughts #sirius black x oc #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanart #sirius being sirius #sirius black fluff #sirius black angst #fanfiction #james & peter & remus & sirius

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dewdropdinosaur · 2 months

Text

Hazbin Having Blues

ALASTOR x READER

Summary: You and Alastor hate each other in every respect. But what if something did help you get along?

Warnings: NONE.

This is kind of a backstory for my fic 'Only for You' based on the line "how you get got along in the first place" and inspired by @anon-of-the-void

Requests are still open!!!

The Hazbin Hotel was a bustling haven for lost souls seeking redemption, but amidst the chaos and colorful characters, a particularly unique dynamic brewed between Alastor, the Radio Demon, and the new arrival…you.

The animosity between you and Alastor was palpable since day one, with every interaction echoing with sharp, witty remarks that cut through the air like daggers.The constant banter between you both created an uncomfortable atmosphere within the hotel, much to the dismay of the optimistic and ever-hopeful Charlie. Despite the young Moringstar’s best efforts to foster a sense of unity and camaraderie, the stalemate in this war of words persisted. Alastor, with his charismatic and devilish charm, found himself enjoying to harp down upon what he saw to be a gross naivety and unmannerly conduct. Meanwhile, you were a soul unafraid to stand up to the radio demon's antics, viewing him as nothing more than a pompous and insufferable presence.

Simply, Alastor and yourself had developed a fierce dislike for each other. The verbal sparring matches were legendary within the walls of the hotel, often leaving other residents uncomfortable and seeking refuge from the bickering.

Insulting conversations include but are not limited to:

“Well, well, if it isn't the radio demon himself. Did you run out of jazz records to torture people with?” “Ah, my dear, I always save the best tunes for special occasions. Unlike your taste in humor.”

“Look who decided to join the conversation. Are you here to dazzle us with your sparkling personality?” “Better than your attempt at a fashion statement. Monochromatic stripes, Al? Even Hell has standards.”

“Heard you like to play games, Alastor. How about a round of ‘Guess What My Expression Means’?” “My, my, how thrilling. I'll start: my face means I'm thoroughly unimpressed by your attempts at banter.”

“You know, Y/N, they say laughter is the best medicine. Too bad it can't cure your lack of charm.” “And they say pride goes before a fall. How's the weather down there, high and mighty?”

One evening, however, something changed.

As Alastor wandered the halls, his keen senses picked up on a faint sound emanating from your room. The unmistakable notes of a trumpet played with soulful precision, and a voice as smooth as molasses crooned lyrics that resonated with a timeless elegance. Intrigued, Alastor pressed his ear against the door. Deciding that was not enough, he slunk into the shadows and appeared in the room behind you.

Inside, you sat alone(you thought you were alone at least) immersed in the soothing melodies of Louis Armstrong's "West End Blues." and Etta James “Bye Bye Blackbird” on LPs for the record player you had thrifted. The soulful and jazzy tunes seemed to transport you to another world, away from the chaos of the hotel. Unbeknownst to you, Alastor found himself captivated by the same enchanting spell.

Alastor found himself captivated by the soulful notes. He couldn't help but appreciate the musical talent behind the song. He couldn't deny the care and emotion woven into each note, and for the first time, Alastor recognized something within you that transcended the ongoing feud. That something he wasn’t quite sure what it was but it was…different. Yes, the songs had come out in 1928 and 1926 respectively, he was alive when they graced the radio waves for the first time. Often finding himself tapping along to a beat in Mimzy’s lounge back then. How did you come to know something of such class when he found you to be a peasant in most respects?

But instead of announcing his presence with a snide remark, Alastor leaned against the doorframe, silently appreciating the moment. When the final notes faded away, he couldn't help but admit with a slow clap, "Not bad, Y/N. Not bad at all."

You, startled by his unexpected appearance, yelped and eyed him suspiciously. "What are you doing in my room, radio head?!"

Alastor smirked, his usual air of arrogance softened by a newfound appreciation. "Just thought I'd acknowledge the good taste when I hear it. That Armstrong fellow knows how to play a mean trumpet."

Raising an eyebrow, you were surprised by the change in tone. "Yeah…what about it?"

“Nothing my dear, simply acknowledging. You may not be such a ducky afterall.” Slinking back into the shadows, Alastor disappeared as quickly as he had come.

You were taken aback but managed a nod of acknowledgment. The tension between the two of you began to ease as Alastor, in his own peculiar way, had found common ground through music.

From that day forward, the interactions shifted. While the witty banter persisted, there was a newfound respect lingering in the air, as if the shared appreciation for timeless jazz classics had bridged an unexpected connection between two souls trapped in the chaotic tapestry of the Hazbin Hotel.

Over time, the insults became less frequent, replaced by a begrudging mutual respect. The other residents were astounded by the change, especially Charlie, who believed her intervention had led to a surprising connection between two seemingly incompatible souls.(My apologies dear Morningstar, trust falls and all…simply not the case.)

As Alastor and you had found a shared appreciation for music, discovering that beneath demonic exteriors, there was more to each other than met the eye. Alastor often found himself up in his radio tower, listening to the jazzy tunes he knew would draw you in. And like a very good little pet, as he liked to call you, you would climb the stairs and sit next to him in silence. Listening and tapping your foot along to the beat, only to leave a few hours later. As the time went on, a few weeks or so, conversation slowly filtered into the listening sessions. Turns out…maybe both of your distastes for each other might not have completely founded. Not that you would ever admit that to his face, nor him to yours.

The Hazbin Hotel, once filled with discord, became a place where even the most unlikely friendships could blossom. And maybe, just maybe dear reader, that friendship could be something more. Alastor did look good in monochromatic stripes anyway.

#romance #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fandom #radio killed the video star #request #answered #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor x reader #alastor being a petty bitch #louis armstrong #circa 1920 #jazz music #etta james #record player #vizziepop #vinyl #enemies to lovers

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silentcryracha · 11 months

Text

❍ ‗ Love Language (Skz - Hyung line) ‗ ❍

Pairings : Chan x reader, Minho x reader, Changbin x reader, Hyunjin x reader

Genre/warnings : Half headcanon and half scenarios. They all start fluffy and fun and end up suggestively/with a little smut. Regardless strictly 18+

Summary : Each member has some specific dynamics in their relationship that makes your love so special. These are some of them <3

Word count : 2.1 K

A/n : The summary and title suck I know apologies lol, just read to understand lol. Anyways have fun!

ps: There could be errors. Do NOT repost on other socials. Leave feedback if you feel like it, otherwise enjoy! ♡︎

Maknae line link

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Chan ‗ ❍

Chan would be absolutely smitten with someone that either had his same talents with music (the whole process) or at the very least someone that is genuinely interested in what he does. He would feel very validated and happy about it , for sure.

"Oh wow is this something new?" he'd answer yes and ask if you wanted to hear it. Of course you'd say yes in a heartbeat. You'd sit on his lap and listening intently to the new sample/recording, bopping your head to it slightly along with the rhythm.

He would try play it cool but would secretly be really hopeful of your response. When you finished listening you'd say something like "That was great, Channie. I especially liked-" and then you'd go into detail about it. He would be smiling so wide I just know.

Extra bonus points if you start adding some technical specifics or took the initiative to give other ideas, keeping in mind everything that you learned from him. Now he's absolutely in awe and wouldn't be able to hide it.

Or maybe it could be a lyric draft, a new dance bit to learn, some raw vocals and so on. Honestly just any part of his work.

He can be insecure sometimes and doubt his own abilities, so I feel like he would gain so much confidence if someone that he genuinely cared about gave him positive feedback. Especially since you'd try to be always really honest with each other, he would value that a lot too.

So in short, shower him in compliments and make him all shy, he'll love that and hate that at the same time.

It could also be that maybe you're not an expert in the matter and would simply ask him to explain further his inspiration/ideas or the process behind whatever he was doing.

Either way one of you would end up impressed af and randomly go like "You know that was really hot, right?"

Next thing you know you're fucking on the studio couch. Or the desk. Or you riding him on the studio chair. The possibilities are multiple.

"So you think I'm really hot, uh?" he'd tease, making you smile breathlessly. You'd get closer to his ear and whisper "Yes. Always" making him groan.

"You seemed such an expert a few moments ago" he'd say in between thrusts, "Should we make our own beat? What do you say, uh? Can't talk now?" you'd clench around him, too out of it to respond.

"My baby is too fucked out to talk now?" he'd tease, but quickly add some sort of praise like "My good girl, so smart".

He could and would absolutely tease you to get you hot and bothered but would never miss to also shower you in praises like you do with him.

Minho ‗ ❍

I feel he's someone who would love to have a person that can easily match his energy, but also sweep him off his feet.

If he's being serious, he'd want you to also be serious. Unless it was a situation in which you know that he just needs some jokes to make him calm down. If he's in a teasing mood or maybe a rare cheesy mood, he'd like you to play along. Imagine if he decided to be really sweet and you're like "What are you doing Minho"

He would absolutely take it ten times worse that it actually is. Especially if we're talking about occasions in which he allows himself to be comfortable and play around. So don't do that please lol

He would find it very amusing if you actually managed to not only keep up with him but maybe even take it a step further. Maybe when he's making a joke or being ironic. If he's being cute and you act even cuter it would make him happy/shy. If he gets into a heated conversation and you're open to discuss it with him, he would really appreciate you speaking your mind and listening to his thoughts.

He would also get quite protective of your own feelings, wanting to demonstrate the same consideration and love to you. He'd make sure to also adapt well to your own mood or cheer you up and comfort you if you needed it. I guess we could say that trusting each other with your feelings and emotions is your love language. And that's why you work so well together; you're truly friends before you're lovers.

But again, in general he would get so giddy and excited when you do share his vibe. Would probably end up with the tension going through the roof. Sexy, angsty, funny, cute. Doesn't matter really.

And now suddenly he's having his way with you in whichever place you're in and truly keep the energy going.

"Oh you think you're funny now, uh?" would absolutely tease you for going along with him and turn it against you. Say shit like"Such a naughty girl for making such jokes" only to make you go insane.

Not in public, absolutely never in public. He's not a big fan of drawing the attention on him especially when he feels vulnerable. But once you get home, oh boy. Again, could be anywhere around the house in any moment of the day.

"Minho-" you'd try to say in between kisses, "Are you sure this is the time for this?" your tone not convincing even yourself. He'd smirk, jokingly grazing his teeth on your neck, "Why not? What, you want me to stop?" he'd tease, making you immediately say no and kiss him harshly.

Those kind of "I don't even know how I ended up here" type of situations. Insane and unhinged just like the man himself.

A joke goes too far and you're laughing a little to hard while you're doing laundry? The washing machine will do. You just got home and are too horny to think straight? The wall next to the entrance sounds good. It's a lazy evening and you're watching something on tv? The bedroom is the place. And so on <3

Changbin ‗ ❍

Changbin is probably someone who would love to have someone that he could spoil and take care of, 'baby' if you will, but would 100% do it back. I almost feel like it would be a standard for a relationship.

He is the type of man that would treat you like royalty and make sure that you're never missing anything. He wouldn't do it expecting to get anything in return, it's just really a matter of affecting and his love language.

But, it would make him very very happy if his s/o had the same type of dynamic.

For him specifically we're talking about both non material and material type of gifts/attention. Like comforting you or making you laugh when you need it, always making sure that you're comfortable and taken care of.

But also I feel like he would spoil you with gifts both randomly and in special occasions. If for example he buys you a birthday gift, it would have to be the best option that fit your taste perfectly. I also feel like you noticing it and making a comment on it like "Oh, Binnie thank you so much, it's my favorite color!" would make him extremely proud. Just in general seeing you happy and knowing that he contributed to it.

On your side, I think he would truly appreciate even the smallest and most mundane things like grabbing his jacket for him before he goes out and give him a little kiss goodbye, adding a slightly bigger portion of a food that he likes in comparison to another that he enjoys less, taking his hand/stroking his arm when he's feeling nervous to comfort him and so on.

It would make him feel loved. And a little babyed too, which I think he'd love to be honest. He'd absolutely baby you in return though, for sure.

All of these situations could easily turn into more explicit ones with the right setting or the right occasion.

For example, if we're talking about gifts, something a little kinky could be you buying a set of lingerie 'just for him'. Or the opposite. He could be the one buying you a nice necklace and comment on how he'd "Like to see you wearing only that"

Or maybe he could have a special event/professional engagement that he's feeling nervous about and you could say something like "I know you're gonna do great. My Binnie is always so good" getting closer to him adding "Make sure to do very well today too for me, okay? Just think of me waiting for you at home with a gift for you only" you'd add some touching or kissing to really seal the deal.

Good job, now you successfully turned him on. Would probably get distracted from his anxiety and go around with a shit eating grin, and of course, do absolutely great on stage. And after that he'd come come with a purpose, and that purpose was thanking you properly for giving him the confidence that he needed. And find his gift, of course.

Not even the time for you to congratulate him on his performance or say hello for that matter, that he'd be passionately kissing you. "Want to show me that little gift you were talking about, princess?" you'd smirk at him and just go "Unwrap it yourself, baby boy".

And he would absolutely do that in no time but not before picking you up and then bringing you to the bedroom to fully enjoy his gift.

Hyunjin ‗ ❍

Hyunjin is somewhat of an introvert yes, but he is also someone who can completely transform on stage, and that is thanks to confidence. Whether he's actually confident or kind of 'fakes it til he makes it', you can't really tell the difference. And that's because nonetheless he genuinely enjoys himself and has lots of fun dancing, singing and performing in general.

This is why I think that something that he would truly appreciate and find attractive in a s/o is the ability to be carefree. Doesn't necessarily mean that you couldn't be insecure or at the contrary be extremely confident. It just means that nonetheless you would be able to have fun and enjoy yourself when you're doing something you like.

For him it can be dancing, for you it can be something else. Whatever it is I feel like it would make him happy to see you truly happy. And also not take yourself too seriously. Maybe even make fun of each other from time to time.

Like when he's practicing a dance routine and being all sexy and serious and shit, maybe even purposefully make a show for you, and by the end of it you'd go "Hwang Hyunjin stop making sexy faces it's just me. Or do you want to seduce the walls?" that would probably make him laugh and instantly shift the mood. Maybe even get him a little shy, never hurts to tease.

And that's when you play it off, but there could easily be other occasions in which he would 100% try to seduce you and be successful at it.

He could be singing or dancing to a particularly 'exciting' song and somehow get you involved. Maybe whispering some lyrics with a low voice, or get you to dance/move with him finding an excuse to touch you. Or maybe both at the same time.

You could also play the same game though. Maybe one night you're feeling particularly in a good mood and just wanted to dance/sing like there's no tomorrow, so you'd try to get Hyunjin involved in your fun, usually being successful. He'd get shy at first but would slowly start to let himself go too.

In the same situation, if you were feeling in a specific mood though, you'd try your best to seduce him. Again, maybe mouthing or singing some lyrics suggestively and giving him bedroom eyes. Or dancing in the sexiest way you could manage, swaying your hips, touching your body or straight up coming onto him and teasing him up close, inviting him to put his own hands on you.

At that point the level of attraction that he was already feeling just from seeing you being so carefree and confident in having fun would straight up turn into being horny. He'd follow your movements with his hands on your body, maybe joining for a while only to explode not long after.

Any surface would do. You'd be way too drunk on each other and with way too much tension to release to think straight. "Look how messy we are right now, and who's fault is that?" he'd whisper in your ear while fucking you against the dance practice room wall.

"I have no idea" you'd tease, making him chuckle breathlessly, before bringing his head closer with your hand to kiss him deeply.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

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grapejuicestyless · 10 months

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Unforgettable

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Y/n Y/l/n is a classic rockstar with a magnetic pull and a bad reputation with men to her name. Turns out Y/n might not be such a bad girl after all and the men she used might have not been the truth.

Pages bursted from every seam of her notebook, littered in scribbled lyrics of failed beginnings, one night stands and the most innocent poetry writings that reflected the opposite of the devilish woman behind the pencil marks.

Everything about her was shiny. Her glittery deep purplish blue eyeshadow and the highlight on the tip of her nose to the glistening sweat that dripped underneath her top.

She was messy, yet so detailed. Every hair out of place seemed to fit perfectly a top her head. The lazy smear of lipgloss and eyeshadow applied carelessly yet laying in such way that it almost looked intentional.

It was that careless attitude that was so magnetic about her. The rockstar exterior she possessed attracting the innocent into her wild web of her craft.

But, despite her rockstar complexion and her love life reputation, the girl had an undeniable talent that could not be ruined by the poor press that swirled her name.

So it could only be fitting to place the most standout woman there into the cleanest band reputation wise. It was humorous, when it was announced. Y/n Y/l/n, joining Harry Styles for his long awaited Love On Tour.

Harry, who had hand picked her from the bunch of bassists waiting to wow him, was immediately aware of her presence. Her look sharp and eye catching, but her talent even better. She had a skill for her craft that nobody else was even able to come close to achieving. It was almost destiny she had shown up, notebook stuffed full of sloppy writing and bass scratched from her frustration.

Truthfully, Y/n hadn’t really longed to be placed into the band. She didn’t exactly enjoy the bright pinks and pop music that blasted through the speakers. She had only gone to the audition because she had been itching to play. Having traveled the world with some of the biggest inspirations, and by herself on a successful world tour a couple years ago, Y/n found herself bored in her home for so long. She was just about ready to go out a preform to a room filled with angry elderly people who hated all loud noises. Anything to give her the thrill of being in front of the crowd again.

So, when she was emailed one August evening, detailing of an audition for a bassist to join a well known artist on stage, she pushed aside her unfamiliarity with the genre.

It wasn’t that Y/n disliked pop music, it just wasn’t her favorite. She’s spent most of her time closer to a soft rock sound, pulling from past inspirations and old sounds that could be reworked into her work. The glitz and glam of the fresh and new sounding pop music was only something she hadn’t really gotten into, explaining why she felt more nervous than glad she was selected.

Yet, her ability to adjust and charm her way through her lack of experience within the genre was enough to keep her going, placing her where she was now. Standing next Harry, under the intense lights of Madison Square in the middle of one of the hottest summers to date.

…

A year had passed, just about, since Y/n first stepped onto the stage, her bass slung around her neck with a tattered strap that was practically molded to her shoulders. She gave a good amount to the band, adding in bass lines that ascended the songs into a better form of themselves. Making sure not to overpower the other instruments, but to lift them up and amplify how they sounded collectively as a band.

“That was good, that sounded great actually!” I turned back, the side of my lip pressed into the surface of the microphone. My hands found their way around the cord, untangling it to gain some more movement around the stage.

“Why don’t we recollect, get some water and stretch out?” I shot a thumbs up to the sound guy, who had been playing around with some switches behind a small barricade farther back in the arena. After the go ahead was given, the lights dimmed to a soft glow on top of the stage and the heat seemed less intense.

“No way, that’s so cool! Where did you find that, I’ve been having so much trouble looking for a new bass recently.” Her voice was slightly raspy, deeper too, I noticed from the dryness that I assumed was itching at her throat.

I watched her toss her head back, lips wrapped around the plastic water bottle until it crinkled beneath her hands and was left with nothing more than a few stray drops of water pooling at the bottom.

Elin, who she had been conversing with enthusiastically, seemed to match her energy precisely, showing Y/n the same amount of excitement over the new piece of equipment. Eyes gleaming with interest and passion over the topic. It felt warming knowing that work felt less like an obligation but instead was a privilege.

A close knit family that brought a dopey smile to my face at only the thought of it. I listened to them and there insane energy inconspicuously, eyes avoidant of the women and instead settled on the ledge between Sarah’s drums and where the trumpet players would stand later that night where the nearest supply of water was.

From afar, underneath the sound in my head of my aggressive swallowing of water, it sounded like the pair were dispersing. The conversation ended with a faint laugh that dwindled out the longer the conversation ended.

It was a true laugh, sincere. Almost a belly laugh but just not quite there yet. The sound so familiar it was instantly pinned in my mind as Y/n’s.

The common misconception about Y/n was that she was shallow, unfeeling and unknowing of basic relationships and proper manners. The media had poorly labeled the innocent woman, her lyrics thought to be too provocative and explicit. Too in depth and detailed that gossip accounts were ready to start this false narrative about the most undeserving person of the hate.

Maybe it was her careless expressions after completing a hard bass line, or her rockstar style that made her such an easy target for the untrue opinions and thoughts. She had that old grungy thing about her that both made her desirable and criticized, yet she made it work.

Y/n was the sun, in my eyes. A bright, young woman with wisdom beyond her years and heart so full it was overflowing with empathy and sympathy. Her lyrics reflected her past experiences, like any other artist. Her failed relationships that left her in the darkness and her distantly timed hook ups to fill the cold loneliness beside her bed.

Truthfully, she was more like the rest of the industry than any gossiper could comprehend. Her writing abilities expressed so freely, so vulnerable that it caused that discomfort, that pit in the listeners stomach forming with each song she put on her albums. The real truth was that she wasn’t some shallow, sex driven girl who dated guys to write about how they did her wrong. She was a loving woman who loved everyone more than life and was overly naive. She dated trying to find someone who could understand her like she understood everyone else. She spoke what was on her mind completely true and unfiltered constantly. Not fearful of the backlash her opinions would bring. That’s what continues to draw me to her throughout our time together.

“Hey, Harry.” Her voice was sweet, laced with honey and dripping in sweetness. I barely noticed her touch on my shoulder until I looked down at her guitar string scarred hands and found myself smiling.

“What’s up, Angel? What’s going on?” I turned my back to her, head thrown over my shoulder to look back to her face while my hands worked on screwing on the cover to my water bottle.

“You know, the usual. Just wanted to tell you I thought that note change during Sign of the Times was beautiful. You should go for those higher notes more often, you hit them every time.” She was completely honest in her opinions, which is why I held her words dear to my heart.

Y/n had no issue telling me what she thought. She was rather quick to give pointers of what worked better and how to substitute those notes that were strained and uncomfortable. Yet, she did it with such a down to earth point of view. She remained humble, even if everyone here knew she had talents beyond all of ours. She acted like she was just as good as the rest of us, like we were equals.

“I know, it’s just hard with so many people around. Don’t want to fall flat and ruin it.” Shrugging, we walked together to the stairs at the edge of the stage.

“Don’t psych yourself out, Styles. You nail those notes all the time. Your range is unbelievably complex. You have that ability to hit the higher notes every time.” She placed her hand in mine, following me down the stairs cautiously as the last one was always less steep than the rest, causing mishaps occasionally.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” We nodded at each other, silently understanding that the conversation was ending but still taking each other in. It almost felt like something was pulling us closer, eyes growing heavier and smiles getting looser. Breathing sharper.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” It was breathy, the way it came out of her mouth. Almost like it was something she hadn’t wanted to say but forced herself to.

I nodded, watching her eyes crinkle before she turned away briskly, quick to find her escape through the illuminated tunnel. For a moment I felt like a fly in a web that was her creation, stuck in place to just stare as she left.

…

The show was unworldly. An atmosphere so intense and the energy so insane the floor swayed beneath my feet. The shows were structured the same each night, yet each one felt like a completely new experience. It was how the fans danced together in a formation that they’d created during Treat People With Kindness and how they’d share different experiences drawn out on their cardboard signs. It was surreal, something I felt lucky enough to experience with some of my closest friends, my band.

It went by smoothly, as projected to. The lights and the transitions between each songs igniting an excitement beyond no other I had ever experienced. Sarah played the drums precisely, hitting every beat necessary as her husband, Mitch, created the familiar tunes that were the songs of the past few albums. Within in the music, Y/n stood perched just next to Pauli, continuing to support Mitch and Elin within her bass playing.

By the time Kiwi had reached its end, I caught myself looking back to catch a glance at Y/n. Telling myself it was only to get a short moment to observe her living in her passion. Really, deep down I knew it was something more, something that had always been there yet I hadn’t had the courage to admit until that out loud.

…

The dressing room was quiet, after the show. The post show blues, as I used to refer to it as. The ultimate high coming back down with the realization that it was all over.

I let myself peel the sweaty chevron shirt off of my body and kicking off my green Gucci shoes. I left on the mismatched bottoms while ruffling through the pile of clothes packed in my suitcase for a shirt and shorts.

“Hey, rockstar. Trying a new look?” My head raised, turning halfway to meet her eyes.

“Yeah, really going for that oiled up 2000’s boy next door idea.” We laughed, eyes closing at how stupid I must’ve looked to her. Finding it funny and slightly embarrassing as the rose tint spread like wildfire across my cheeks.

Soon, our laughs turned into silence, warm smiles reflecting off of our faces onto the others. It was comfortable, lip caught between her teeth and mine pulling at the skin of my bottom one.

“I heard what you did tonight. Proud of you. I told you, you could hit that note change. Honestly, sounded better out there than at soundcheck.” My heart fluttered.

“I could say the same about you. It’s like you gain more power with each show.”

“Stop it, you just might make me blush.” She stepped closer, merely a few inches left separating the two of us. Her breath tickling my skin, her hands clenched by her sides nervously.

Suddenly, she had lost all that confidence that told the world she could play anyone like a fiddle. Suddenly she lost that fog around the mirror that created the illusion of a rockstar super player who moved from one man to the next, without rhyme or reason. She became what we’d all learned of her. The girl who loved long and hard on the people close to her, and the girl who despite was she was destined by the media to have been, had only had a couple relationships past the one night stands that filled her notebook. She batted her eyes, and I held my breath.

“Y/n…” It was a whisper. A soft murmur beneath my breath, but I was sure she’d heard it.

I found myself slowly reaching for her hand, opening it on top of my palm and brushing my fingers gently over the creases that ran along them before letting it fall back to her side. My eyes lifted from where we touched back to her face. Only to allow myself to find contact again. I let my hand slip around her waist, pulling slowly until our bodies were pressed together. The only thing separating our lips was the small gap we’d placed between them.

“Harry..?” She seemed conflicted, unsure almost. Hesitant.

“Is this okay?” It came out shaky, the nerves reaching a point that could only be cured by her acceptance.

“I…I just…” She thought on it, “I don’t want you to believe everything about me. I don’t want to lose you when you realize I’m not who you think I am.” The confession sounded like it was almost painful to admit.

“Oh.” I blinked, “Y/n, angel, no. I would never think that.” Her eyes were avoidant, her body more tense than moments prior.

“Please, look at me.” I let my other hand raise under his chin, pointer finger hooking underneath her chin to raise her gaze to mine, “To me, you are everything. You understand me. You see things that nobody else sees. Y/n, you bring out the best in me. I would have never had the courage to push myself and change that note tonight if you hadn’t pushed me to do it. You have this honesty that makes everyone value your words and you have this power over me that continues to draw me to you. I can not explain it, but believe me when I say you are all I want.” Her eyes fogged with what I believed to be her taking in my sudden confession. Yet, with her realization at what I had just said, she still remained silent and I felt the instant regret growing harder in my heart.

I had been through enough rejections to build a home. Yet, the thought of her rejecting me hurt more than anything I could’ve put myself through.

“Shit..Im sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ My explanation was no use, her hands on my cheeks and her lipstick smearing across my lips in a red hue as her lips pressed hard into mine in a sudden burst of confidence.

My eyes shut quickly, settling into it, only for it to be taken away quicker than I had longed for. Eyes opened in a lustful haze. Yet it wasn’t sexual, but completely innocent and perfect in every sense.

“I love you.” The words slipped passed my lips before I could stop them. A smile growing in a lovesick fashion across her face as my confession Is held in for so long reached her ears.

“I love you too.” She returned the confession, leaning in again to press her lips harder into mine and a heavenly sigh escaping her throat.

It was passionate and loving in a way that I’d never experienced before. The shared feelings were strong, new, vulnerable. A new beginning that both of us secretly longed for.

How funny the public would find it if the news ever broke that their precious bad girl rockstar was actually a giant love bug and an angel on earth. How much of a shock it would be to those who tore her down for her fashion choices and her lack of precautions in the public eye.

She might not be who she was made out to be from the exterior, but the one thing the press had gotten right about the devilish woman who broke too many hearts and dished out too many fights she could handle.

She is unforgettable.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst

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